




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


V 





THE PRIEST’S MARRIAGE 




The PRIEST’S Marriage 



NORA VYNNE 

t % 

AUTHOR OF THE BLIND ARTIST’s PICTURES,” “ HONEY OF ALOES 
“ A COMEDY OF HONOR,” “ A MAN AND HIS WOMANKIND ” 
“the story of a FOOL AND HIS FOLLY,” ETC. 



G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
NEW YORK & LONDON 
(Ibe IKnicherbocber prefix 

1900 




TWO COPIHS HECEIVEO, 

•-/Orary tong,,,,;, 

Offlc«„f,ha 

pF"^ ■' « inpQ 


af Copyrlghfsi 


54273 


Copyright, 1899 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


StUJNU COPY. 




Ubc Itnicfeerbochcr press, fiew l^orft 


DcMcateJ) 


TO THE 

BEST BROTHER AND SISTER I KNOW 
JAMES M. AND ANNIE V. CHERRIE 





CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I.— The) Mother of a Debutante . . . i 

II.— The Betrothae H 

III. — The Gossip of Friends 26 

IV. — Warned 36 

V.— Just as It shoued Be 47 

VI.— Communion of Spirit 58 

VII.— A Parting 68 

VIII.— Good News for Dick 74 

IX.— An Amateur Guardian 82 

X.— CoNNUBiAE Confidences 91 

XI.— Exit a Curate 

XII.— A Capitueation 112 

XIII. — Effie’S Phieosophy 125 

XIV. — Comrades ^34 

XV.— A MiraceE of Tact i 47 

XVI.— A Question of a Dinner . • • .156 

XVII.— Understanding 164 

vii 


viii Contents 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XVIII.— What IS Sin? i 73 

XIX. — A New Joy 189 

XX. — Mystification 204 

XXI. — Facing the Beast . . . . . . 215 

XXII. — An Emissary of Evie 226 

XXIII.— For the Right 234 

XXIV. — A Knight’s Vigie 242 

XXV.— The Wiser Way 249 

XXVI. — REEEASED 260 

XXVII. — Lady Feetringham’s Concern . . . 273 

XXVIII. — Uncertainty 284 

XXIX.— Repentance 300 



THE PRIEST’S MARRIAGE 





THE PRIEST’S MARRIAGE 


CHAPTER I 


THK MOTHKR OF A DKBUTANTF 



ICK ARCHKR found Mrs. Fulton alone in the 


drawing-room, when he dropped in casually on 
his way to Fady Feltringham’s reception. Mrs. Fulton 
was reclining, as she generally was, on a little sofa, 
and gave her hand to Dick without rising. She was 
not ill, but, as she herself would have explained, she 
so often was ill that it would have been giving un- 
necessary trouble to her friends to force them to recog- 
nize the variations of her health. 

“ Nan is upstairs, dressing,” she said ; this is the 
night of her dance ; had you forgotten ? The Baileys 
are taking her ; she has to go to them. She is a little 
late, I fancy.” 

“ I ’ll take her to Mrs. Bailey’s,” said Dick. “I’m 
going to Dady Feltringham’s, and it ’s close by.” 


I 


2 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Mrs. Fulton placidly agreed to the suggestion. Dick 
must have a cab in any case, and if he took Nan in it, 
that would save two shillings ; and there was reason to 
save money just now, for she saw the woman’s great 
occasion for spending it looming in the distance. Aloud 
she said : 

“You go to so many interesting houses, Dick.’* 

“ It ’s all in the day’s work,’’ said Dick, patiently. 
“ Mrs. Bailey takes Nan about a good deal, does n’t 
she?’’ 

“ Yes — it ’s so nice for the child, since I can’t take 
her myself. Besides, they know so many more people 
than I do.” 

She spoke slowly, looking at Dick a little doubtfully. 
She knew he had not a very high opinion of the 
Baileys, but then, everyone could not visit Cabinet 
Ministers’ wives, as Dick did. There was a long pause 
in the conversation, then Dick said — for the sake of 
saying something — 

“ Nan is a long time dressing, is n’t she ? ” 

“ She has a new frock,” said Mrs. Fulton ; “ are you 
in a hurry ? What time should you be at Lady Felt- 
ringham’s ? ” 

“ Oh, any time will do ; there ’s no hurry.” 

“ Have a cigarette while you wait,” said Mrs. Ful- 
ton ; “ it makes me restless to watch anyone waiting. 
We must let the child be as long as she likes. It is 
natural she should wish to look her best to-night. ’ ’ 


The Mother of a Debutante 


3 


‘ ‘ Is the dance anything special ? ’ ’ 

“ Someone special is to be there, I believe.” 

Dick said ” Yes,” in a tone of awakened interest. 
Mrs. Fulton went on doubtfully : 

” I don’t even know him ; that ’s what makes me so 
anxious, but the Baileys have the very highest opinion 
of him.” 

There was a short silence, then Dick said quietly : 

‘ ‘ Do you mean that Annie is engaged ? ’ ’ 

“Not quite ; but I expect that she will be when she 
comes back to me.” 

“ To a man you don’t know ? ” 

“I’m such an invalid,” said Mrs. Fulton, apologeti- 
cally. ‘ ‘ Of course I shall know him before the thing 
is finally settled. Meanwhile the Baileys have told me 
a great deal about him, that ’s some comfort.” 

“Who is he?” 

“ His name is Fustace Stravil.” 

“ I never heard of him.” 

“ Oh, you would n’t, I dare say. He is of good 
family, but he does n’t go into political sets at all. He 
is well off, the Baileys tell me.” 

“ A good sort of fellow ? ” 

Mrs. Fulton’s face brightened : 

“ Why, that ’s just what he is, Dick, really good — 
that ’s what pleases me ; of course you ’ll laugh, be- 
cause you have no religion at all, but Mr. Stravil used 
to be a Roman Catholic — was educated for a priest, in 


4 


The Priest’s Marriage 


fact, but when he grew older and wiser, he changed. 
Now a man must be really in earnest about his religion 
before he will take the trouble to change it. That ’s 
what sets my mind at rest about Annie’s engagement.” 

Dick did not laugh. Mrs. Fulton’s comfortable Dow 
Church idea that a man was bound to be the better for 
giving up what she would have termed ‘ ‘ popery ’ ’ was 
so thoroughly characteristic of her. Neither did he 
protest against being judged to be entirely without 
religion. 

“ Don’t you think you ought to have known more 
about the man than that before things went so far ? ” 
he said, speaking a little sharply. 

“My dear Dick, how could I?” she protested. 
“You can put a great many questions to the man who 
asks leave to marry your daughter, but you can’t ques- 
tion him when you only think he is going to propose 
to your daughter. I might have spoiled everything.” 

“ What do you mean by spoiled everything ? ” 

“ Why, I might have frightened the man away by 
making him think that I would be a disagreeable inter- 
fering mother-in-law. Besides, I did n’t even know 
him.” 

“You could have let Annie invite him to call on 
you.” 

“ But that would have been making the child go 
farther than he had gone ; one would do this with an 
ordinary acquaintance, but in a case like this a girl is 


The Mother of a Debutante 


5 


wiser to show no preference whatever until the thing is 
put into plain words. Think how humiliated she would 
be afterwards if nothing came of it.” 

‘ ‘ There seems to me to be a good deal of unneces- 
sary fencing in the matter,” Dick said, impatiently. 

‘ ‘ Surely if a man wants to marry a girl, he knows it 
and should n’t mind owning it, and if a girl wants to 
marry a man, she should know it and should n't mind 
showing it.” 

” My dear Dick,” said Mrs. Fulton, ” do you really 
think that now ? ”. 

” No,” said Dick, breaking into a laugh, ” no, that ’s 
all nonsense. I am quite sure neither person concerned 
ever knows anything of the matter till the last moment ; 
it is a spontaneous impulse proceeding entirely from 
the assistance of outsiders. I don’t think you all need 
have been in quite such a hurry about Nan.” 

” I have n’t been exactly in a hurry, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Fulton ; “I don’t think you should say that. 
Though this is Nan’s first season, she is n’t a baby; it 
is only her first season because I was such an invalid, 
and did n’t know enough people to give her anything 
worth calling a season. I think the poor child would 
have had a fair chance of growing into an old maid be- 
fore we realized what was happening, if the Baileys 
had n’t taken such a fancy to her. If this affair we are 
talking of turns out well, I shall be very glad.” 

” And, in the circumstances,” said Dick, ” I quite 


6 


The Priest’s Marriage 


understand that we must not expect Nan downstairs 
just yet, so I will have that cigarette you suggested, 
if I may?” 

As he turned from lighting it, Mrs. Fulton was look- 
ing at him doubtfully. He waited for the question. 

‘ ‘ Of course I have been wondering what you would 
say,” she began. 

‘ ‘ And you find I make myself very disagreeable over 
a matter which does not concern me ? ’ ’ 

“ I wondered a little if you would have liked things 
— different.” 

“ No,” he said, “ that ’s just it ; I did n’t want any- 
thing to be different — I wanted everything to be just 
the same. That ’s what one always wants when things 
are pleasant, is n’t it ? I wanted our little trio to stay 
as it was — and I want the ministry to keep in office, 
but it won’t. They ought to have gone out after the 
fracas last week, and if they drag on for another three 
months, that ’s the limit. Then I shall be an expen- 
sive young man with no income and no invitations to 
dinner, not even to receptions after dinner. ’ ’ 

“ But to come back to the child,” said Mrs. Fulton. 

“That ’s the worst of it,” said Dick. “ We can’t 
come back to the child. We find a young lady who is 
* out, ’ who goes to dances — subscription dances — and 
comes home engaged to a man we don’t know ; and 
presently, I suppose, we shall find a smart married 
woman who will, I fancy, be among the few who will 


The Mother of a Debutante 


7 


continue to ask me to dinner when I have no income. 
Well, the world won’t stand still, of course. I 
should n’t have said that this was no concern of mine, 
Mrs. Fulton. I am concerned. ” 

“ Hush ! here is Nan,” said Mrs. Fulton, dropping 
her voice ; ” don’t let her know I told you yet. She 
would never forgive me if nothing comes of it. ’ ’ 

Annie came into the room. If her appearance had 
taken her some time and trouble, the result repaid it. 
She looked her best, and her best was very sweet and 
winning, and so young and pure that the little pearl 
heart on the slender chain round her throat seemed 
almost emblematical. She saw Dick at once, and gave 
a little exclamation of pleasure. 

” I did n’t know you were here, or I would have 
hurried,” she said. 

“ Dick is going with you to Mrs. Bailey’s,” said her 
mother. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Dick, are you going to the dance, too ? How 
nice ! ” 

“ No, but I am going your way, and can put you 
into your friends’ charge,” said Dick. 

She looked up at him quickly, a little anxiously, 
wondering what had brought that curious note of re- 
straint into his voice. Dick had the sort of voice one 
likes to listen to even when what it says is not of much 
importance ; he never said much, in any case. Annie, 
on the contrary, talked a good deal, but, like most 


8 The Priest s Marriage 

girls, always stopped short just at the thing she really 
meant. 

‘ ‘ Are you pleased with your frock, dear ? ’ ’ asked 
Mrs. Fulton. 

“I’m not quite sure — my glass is n’t big enough to 
see it all at once. I ’m not sure if this queer tunic 
thing goes right behind. ’ ’ 

“ It goes quite right,” said Dick, gravely ; “I 
noticed it particularly as you crossed the room as the 
very latest development, and it is pretty into the 
bargain. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t like wearing white,” said Annie, doubt- 
fully, “ it ’s so childish ; besides, one ought tabe very 
dark or very fair to wear white. It makes middling 
people look insipid. But Ella Payne is wearing scar- 
let, and somehow, when Ella is wearing scarlet I 
always want to wear white as much as I can.” 

“ I can understand that,” said Dick. “ I ’ve met 
Miss Payne in scarlet. ’ ’ 

“One does like to make a contrast, of course,” said 
Mrs. Fulton, “ even if it ’s only a contrast of color. 
Now what is there to laugh at in that, Dick ? ” 

“ Annie’s contrast goes a little further, that ’s all,” 
said Dick. 

“It ’s always such a temptation to darken one’s 
eyebrows when one wears white,” continued Annie. 
‘ ‘ I thought about it for at least five minutes. Do you 
think it would be very wrong ? ” 


The Mother of a Debutante 


9 


“ One generally thinks it is,” said Mrs. Fulton, ” but 
still, if it made you look nicer ” 

But Annie was looking at Dick, so he answered 
her : 

” Artistically I should say it would be wrong, they 
are very well as they are. On higher grounds I sup- 
pose I ’m not qualified to give an opinion ; your mother 
has just been saying that I have no religion.” 

” Oh, mother,” cried Nan, “ I wish you would n’t 
say such funny things.” 

“ No religion, and presently no income,” said Dick. 
“ It is very unfortunate.” 

“No income ? Have the ministry gone out then ? ” 

“No, but they ought to have gone, and they must 
go soon, and then I shall have no income.” 

He looked so careless and so handsome as he leaned, 
cigarette in hand, against the mantelpiece that it was 
small wonder if she did not take him seriously. 

” But then you never have very much income, have 
you ? You won’t trouble about it very badly ? ” 

” I sha’n’t trouble at all till the time comes — I don’t 
know why I mentioned the circumstance.” 

” My dear, had n’t you better start?” said Mrs. 
Fulton. 

“ Tet Dick finish his cigarette,” Nan said ; “ there 
is no hurry.” 

” It ’s finished,” said Dick ; “or will be by the time 
I get a cab. Det me go — I ’m sure Hannah is busy. 


lO 


The Priest’s Marriage 


I ’ve got a beautiful new cab whistle, and it is a real 
pleasure to me to blow it.” 

Annie watched him anxiously as he left the room. 
She looked quite troubled. Her mother was watching 
her. The two seemed a little shy of each other now 
they were alone. 

“ You look very nice, my dear,” said Mrs. Fulton. 

“ Do I ? I’m glado I ’m sorry Dick is going to a 
horrid party; he could have stayed and talked to you.” 

“ My dear, he is going to Lady Feltringham’s.” 

” Of course,” said Annie ; ” I ’d forgotten ; but I ’m 
sure he would much rather have been here with you.” 

“ What time shall you be back to-morrow, dear?” 
asked Mrs. Fulton. 

‘ ‘ Oh, in the morning before lunch — that is, unless 
Mrs. Bailey comes back with me. Then, of course, I 
must wait for her ; that may make me later. There 
are some girls staying in the house, and she will want 
to let them talk about the dance. Mrs. Bailey is very 
kind to girls, I think.” 

” I wish we could make some little return to her 
girls,” said Mrs. Fulton. 

” Perhaps I shall be able to some day,” said Annie. 
“ Mother, I ” she stopped. They heard Dick whis- 

tling hard at the hall door. 

” Will Dick have no money at all when he is n’t 
Lord Feltringham’s secretary,” asked Annie. 

“ I don’t know,” Mrs. Fulton said placidly. ” He 


The Mother of a Debutante 


1 1 

always has been I^ord Feltringham’s secretary ever 
since we have known him, and he always seems to 
have enough money for a single man.” 

“ I hope he has. I can scarcely imagine Dick going 
about shabby and hard up.” 

” Oh, he would n’t do that,” said Mrs. Fulton, 
cheerfully ; “he would get into debt. That ’s such 
an easy way of living for a young man of good family.” 

Annie laughed. All ways of living were somewhat 
easy in her easy-going mother’s eyes, but before she 
had time to answer Dick came back to say the cab was 
there. 

Left alone, Mrs. Fulton felt a moment’s compunction 
over her late complaisant acquiescence in the saving 
of her daughter’s cab fare. Of course, Dick must have 
paid his own in any case ; but if he was going to be 
really poor, she was sorry she had been so pleased at 
her own saving of these two shillings. 

She was anxious as to her daughter’s future, and 
troubled that she had so little share in the direction of 
it. She even went so far as indulging in a little Low 
Church prayer that all might go well ; and then, con- 
sidering that well or ill she could know nothing till an 
indefinite hour to-morrow, went to bed hoping gently 
for the best. 

It was a short drive to the Baileys. Only Mrs. 
Fulton’s placid recklessness would have rated the fare 
at two shillings. Dick had no intention of giving 


12 


The Priest’s Marriage 


more than eighteenpence. Nan did not talk much. 
Dick felt rather than saw that she was preoccupied 
and nervous. He felt a curious pity for her. He 
did n’t know why ; a girl going to receive her first 
offer of marriage should not need pity. But it was as 
if they were all letting her go unarmed and unwarned 
into danger, getting her go ! Why, they had been 
leading her, coaxing her, pressing her forward, con- 
sciously or unconsciously — her kind, careless mother, 
those well-meaning, stupid Baileys, everyone — and 
there was no one to warn her not to go an inch farther 
or a moment faster than she would go of herself. Then 
he remembered she was not quite sure that the love 
would be offered — that might be the cause of the 
trouble in her eyes. That was why he had been asked 
not to let her know the matter had been mentioned to 
him. He could guess how the girl would fret if she 
learned that anyone knew she expected an offer of mar- 
riage and none were to come. 

They had reached the Baileys’ door and he had said 
nothing. There was nothing to be said, unless it were 
possible to lead up to some platitude about the folly of 
girls getting engaged through the pressure of friends 
when they were not quite sure of their own feelings ; 
and even that, unless done with more skill than the 
time at his disposal would allow, might let her know 
her mother had been speaking of her. He would 
probably have attempted something in the way of 


The Mother of a Debutante 


13 


warning in spite of his promise, but the hall door 
opened too quickly. Annie was a little late ; at sound 
of her cab stopping the party had come into the hall. 

Dick caught a scarlet glimpse of Miss Payne, and, 
beyond her, of one or two girls in tamer colors. Be- 
hind them several men were standing. He turned to 
Annie to say good-night, still considering the possi- 
bility of that word of warning ; but he stopped short. 
She had seen one of the men in the background, and 
her face was not the face of a girl hurried into marriage 
against her will. 

But if Dick had been a little older or a little wiser, 
he would have made an opportunity for his protest. 
Complete innocence may be an excellent, almost a per- 
fect, safeguard for a woman so far as the bearing of 
others towards her is concerned ; it is no help at all in 
her judgment of others. He disliked her friends, the 
Baileys and their friends, but was in the habit of tell- 
ing himself that Annie was too good to be spoilt ; it 
did not occur to him that the harm lay not in the vul- 
garity or silliness she might learn from them, but in 
the want of what she might have learned had her 
mother been less simple and her friends better bred. 




CHAPTER II 


THK BKTROTHAI, 



'HERE was a chorus of good-natured scolding as 


1 Annie entered the hall. Then Mrs. Bailey set 
about packing the girls into the carriage while the men 
of the party prepared to follow in hansoms. Ella 
Payne, calmly ignoring Mrs. Bailey’s arrangements, 
went off in a hansom with Mark Scarsdale. Beatrice 
Bailey was engaged, so was allowed to go with 
her fiance. Annie found herself next to Effie Bailey 
and regretted it, not that she disliked her, but she 
disliked what she knew she must expect of her just 


then. 


“You clever girl,” she began in what might be 
termed a carriage undertone, directed straight at Nan’s 
ear. “ You clever girl, you could n’t have done better 
than to make that good-looking man bring you here ; 
it was just the one thing needed. You should have 
seen Mr. Stravil’s face when he saw you both. Who 
was the other man ? ’ ’ 

Annie had seen Mr. Stravil’s face, and knew that 


14 


The Betrothal 


15 


Effie spoke the truth. The knowledge hurt, but she 
answered quietly : 

“ Don’t be silly ; I did n’t make anybody come. 
He was calling on mother and happened to be coming 
this way. He is quite an old friend of mother’s and 
mine.” 

” Is he coming to the dance ? ’ ’ 

” No ; he was on his way to Tady Feltringham’s.” 

” Oh, as grand as that ! Then, of course, he 
would n’t come to stupid subscription dances. Is that 
the ‘ friend ’ they talk about, mother and Mr. Stravil, 
I mean ? I wish I had some young men for old friends. 
All our old friends are old fogies. Perhaps he dances 
badly. Please let me think he dances badly, or else I 
shall be wishing he were here all the evening and 
hating all the men who are here.” 

” He dances extremely well ! ” said Nan. 

‘ ‘ Then all I can say is, I wonder you can think of 
Eustace Stravil.” 

” I never told you that I did think of Mr. Stravil.” 

” Don’t be cross. Of course, you never told me, and 
he never told me that he was in love with you ; but all 
the same I expect to see you dance six times and go 
down to supper with him, and if I did the same with 
Mark Scarsdale, who has n’t any money, mother would 
scold me when we got home, and she won’t scold you.” 

” She does n’t scold Ella, and Ella danced all the 
evening with Mr. Scarsdale last Wednesday.” 


i6 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Oh, no one ever scolds Ella,” Effie said with a 
certain respectful envy. ” I expect that ’s because 
everyone knows that however much she may flirt she 
would never do anything really silly.” 

Effie’ s estimate of Mr. Stravil’s demands on Nan’s 
programme proved tolerably correct, and, moreover, 
when he was not dancing with her, he did not dance 
at all — except, of course, the one dance with every lady 
of his hostess’s party which the etiquette of subscription 
dances requires. Once, in the generosity of her own 
enjoyment, when Nan had noticed a shy, plain girl, 
whom she knew slightly, sitting out a great many 
dances, she had suggested that Stravil should invite 
her, and then colored uncomfortably on seeing that 
the Bailey girls had noticed her assumption of au- 
thority. It was tiresome of them to be so interested in 
her doings. Stravil had gone at once to be introduced 
to the girl and had asked her for a dance. It was over 
now ; the evening was nearly at an end, and, after a 
long valse, Stravil and Nan had turned into a little 
recess where the gas was burning very faintly. Nan 
was tired, but pleasantly tired. So far, it had been a 
very happy evening. 

Neither of them seemed anxious to talk. Effie’ s re- 
marks came back into the young girl’s mind and made 
her shy and constrained. It was not true that she 
was, or ever had been, more anxious to receive this 
man’s love than he to give it. Why, she had rather 


The Betrothal 


17 


disliked him at first ; it was only his persistence that 
had overcome her dislike. She had only acquiesced at 
last when he and everyone else took it for granted that 
he was in love with her. Of course Mrs. Bailey had 
invited him to dinners and dances, but then he need 
not have come if he had not wanted to meet her. 

Stupid and vulgar people always thought the girl 
was sure to be the more eager of the two, and Kfiie 
was certainly vulgar ; even Mrs. Bailey herself said so. 
It was a horrid idea ; it made one want to be engaged 
to a man much more than one did really just to show 
that one could. She did want to be engaged to Mr. 
Stravil. She had known that for weeks, and been 
very angry with herself for the knowledge ; and yet, 
to-night, she had a curious feeling that she would be 
glad if he went away and she never saw him again as 
long as she lived, and so ended all her own doubts and 
other people’s discussions. 

“ How white you look in the shadow,” he said. 
“You seem almost transparent. With a little imagina- 
tion one could believe that you gave out light. Might 
one touch you, I wonder, just to see if you are real ? ” 

She laughed a little nervously. ” Oh, I am quite 
real, I think ; you ’ve been dancing with me — that was 
touching me, was n’t it ? ” 

” What, with a roomful of people looking on ? That 
did n’t count. If that were all, we might as well be 
back in the ballroom.” 


i8 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ I thought we came here because I was tired.” 

“ Did we ? I did n’t think we came for that. Are 
you tired ? ’ ’ 

“ No — at least I am enjoying myself so much that if 
I don’t rest I shall be tired presently. You said, ‘ Come 
and rest a little,’ so I came.” 

” I wonder,” he said, “ if you are one half as tired 
as I am ? ” 

“ What are you tired of ? ” 

” A great many things; chiefly, the one thing I once 
thought worth caring about.” 

‘ ‘ Did you only care about one thing ? I care about 
so many. What was your one thing ? ’ ’ 

” One might call it liberty.” 

” Oh, I can’t understand anyone tiring of that. I 
love it.” 

” I wonder now,” he said with a laugh, “ what a 
little white thing like you means by liberty. ’ ’ 

” Why, not being ordered about, or worried, and ” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, not being married, and not wanting to be.” 

“ You are not tired of that, then ? ” 

“ No, of course not ; I ’ve only just begun. No ; 
not tired at all~but, ” 

“ But what?” 

“Tell me about your liberty, that you are tired 
of” 

He looked in her face and laughed softly. 


The Betrothal 


19 


“ I think I won’t do that; you tell me what you were 
going to say when you stopped.” 

” I was n’t going to say it, that was why I stopped.” 

“ You had said that you liked liberty and were not 
tired of it, and that for you liberty meant not being 
married and not wanting to be but — now without what 
might be expected to follow that ‘ but,’ I should have 
to get up and go, you know. ’ ’ 

” It ’s not fair to talk to me in questions; one always 
gives quite a wrong impression answering questions, 
and I don’t want you to get up and go ; you know I 
don’t. But that is n’t because I am tired of anything, 
and if you are tired I am sorry ; things you say often 
make me sorry.” 

‘ ‘ What things, for instance ? ’ ’ 

“ I can’t remember any of them now.” 

“ Don’t remember any of them again. I won’t say 
them any more.” 

“Why not? I ’d rather know just exactly what 
you thought even if it did make me sorry.” 

‘ ‘ Because you are very beautiful and very good — and 
if there is anything ugly in me it shall be kept out of 
your sight.” 

“ Then I shall be no help to you.” 

‘ ‘ The greatest help a woman can give a man is not 
to know his faults.” 

“ Do you know,” she said doubtfully, “ that you 
have a great many theories about women ? ” 


20 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ You shall revise them,” he said, “ and I ’ll give 
up those you don’t approve of.” 

At that moment, another couple, looking for a quiet 
corner for themselves, drew aside the curtain, flooding 
the little recess with light ; they stood a moment look- 
ing embarrassed and then fled, forgetting to replace 
the curtain. Annie felt the color rise in her face, and 
glanced quickly at Stravil. He seemed about ten times 
as embarrassed as she, so she looked away again. 

“ There was plenty of room for them, too,” she said, 
carelessly. 

Stravil laughed. 

‘ ‘ Suppose we go back now, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I think I ’m 
engaged for this dance or the next. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Stay where you are, ’ ’ he said under his breath, blit 
imperatively. She began to feel a little afraid of 
him. 

“ I must n’t cut dances,” she said; “ it ’s rude,” and 
she half arose. 

‘ ‘ What matter ? No one but I must see you looking 
as beautiful as you look now. I have n’t finished what 
I brought you here to say. Before you go back you 
will have promised to be my wife, and then I shall have 
you safe, however beautiful you look.” 

“ Oh,” she said, under her breath, dropping back 
into her seat ; ” you have rather a funny way of ask- 
ing, have n’t you ? ” 

“ I don’t believe I could have asked you at all,” he 


The Betrothal 


21 


said, “ if those two had n’t come. I could n’t talk of 
love to you, you looked so white — so mystical, and cold, 
and good. It ’s easier to speak now you are flushed, 
and troubled, and human. I dare take your hand now. 
My dear, my dear, do you know you ’re the loveliest 
little girl in the whole world — and I would have shot 
myself if you had n’t said yes. You have n’t, by the 
way. Have I been too sudden ? Have I frightened 
you ? Do you want time to think — to ask your 
mother — Mrs. Bailey ? Should I have spoken to them 
first ? I meant to do that, to get them to persuade you, 
but when I saw that man come to the door with you 
to-night, I made up my mind I ’d have your promise 
before we parted this evening, and I have it, have n’t 
I? Don’t tell me I ’m too late.” 

” No, of course not ; how can you think so ? If you 
were too late, I should n’t be here.” 

” You will promise me ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I thought he was coming here to-night with the 
rest of us. I was as jealous as a boy ; and I was as 
glad as a boy would have been when I found he 
was n’t.” 

“But it would n’t have made any difference if he 
had.” 

“ I ’m a little sorry for him,” Stravil said. 

“ Oh, but you must n’t be,” Nan said, laughing. 
“ That was Mr. Archer. There is nothing for anyone 


22 


The Priest’s Marriage 


to be sorry for about him. He will be quite pleased 
that I am so happy. He is my friend, you know. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, I knew all about that, on Mrs. Bailey’s 
authority ; ‘ known you from a child ’ — unique speci- 
men of the non-existent monster called platonic friend 
— but, you see, I don’t believe in platonic friendships, 
more particularly when a girl is as young and as pretty 
as you. I won’t be jealous of him now you have given 
me your word, but you must let me be sorry for him.” 

“ Indeed, you must n’t be,” said Nan, indignantly ; 
“ that ’s worse than being jealous. It ’s such a dread- 
ful liberty to be sorry for a man who has n’t anything 
the matter with him ; besides, it will make things so 
uncomfortable when we ask him to dinner. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ When we ask him to dinner ? Are we going to 
ask him to dinner ? Have you thought it all out and 
arranged the menage, and decided how many dinners 
we are to give in the course of the season ? ’ ’ 

“ Of course I have thought about it,” said Nan, sur- 
prised. ” How could I have known whether I would 
say yes or not if I had n’t thought about it ? ” 

“ And all the while I should n’t have had the cour- 
age to speak if the light had n’t suddenly shown me 
that my angel was a woman.” 

“Why should it want so much courage?” asked 
Annie, a little troubled. “ Of course, I understood ; 
you don’t want me to pretend I did n’ t, do you ? Wh}^ 
I should n’t have danced so many times with you or 


The Betrothal 


23 


come here unless I had understood. You would n’t 
like to think I would do as much with anyone, would 
you?” 

‘ ‘ I never thought of that ; of course you would not. 
Well, I suppose one could n’t take a girl by surprise 
unless one proposed to her half an hour after the intro- 
duction.” 

“I’m glad you did n’t do that,” said Annie ; “for 
I would have said no, then.” 

‘ ‘ Did you dislike me ? ” 

“Well, yes, I thought I did ; but not only because 
of that, because of what I said just now. I did n’t 
want to be married. I wanted to go to parties, and 
have fun with the others, and care for little foolish 
things, as girls do, but — well, this is what I would n’t 
go on saying a little while ago, you know — but presently 
I found that the parties were n’t any fun unless you 
were there, and I did n’t care about the foolish things 
a bit, because I was so anxious about you ; and then I 
knew I should have to say yes, if you asked me. But 
if it had n’t been for that I should n’t have wanted to 
be engaged for years and years.” 

“ How foolish women are ! ” he said. “ Don’t you 
know you can only have your first year of youth once. 
Don’t you know you can never again be to any man 
what you are to me to-night — a young girl listening to 
her first lover ; a shut bud can only open once, and 
then the perfume goes. It ’s a marvel to me how these 


24 


The Priest’s Marriage 


girls who have gone from ball to ball, and heard man 
after man talk of love to them, ever find anyone to marry 
them at the last. Why, you sweet, shy little thing, 
don’t you know that every year, every ball, every 
single dance with another man would have taken 
something from you? Something that could never 
have been brought back as long as you lived ; some- 
thing indefinable — I can’t put it into words — but I 
know that it is what I love you for.” 

” Oh, but don’t,” she cried. “ Don’t love me like 
that.” 

“ Like what ? ” 

“ I don’t know — like a Mahometan.” 

He laughed a little. 

“ Do I love you like a Mahometan ? Well, I won’t ; 
modern life won’t allow it. But that is just what I 
would like. I believe every man would rather think 
his wife not only never would be loved, but never had 
been loved, never even seen by another man. I would 
like to shut you up in a harem, with no one but women 
to talk to, and not too many of them. But don’t be 
afraid. We shall have to live like our neighbors, go 
about with each other, and give dinners and invite the 
platonic friend to them. ’ ’ 

“ Sha’n’t you like doing that?” asked Annie, 
anxiously. 

Stravil laughed. 

“I’m afraid he ’s in love with you.” 


The Betrothal 


25 


“ But he is not.’' 

She looked at Stravil with quiet certainty ; he looked 
down at her, amused but tender. 

I wonder,” he said, ” what makes you so sure of 
that, ’ ’ and he laughed a little. 

“You have no idea,” she said, “ how utterly differ- 
ent he is from you.” 






CHAPTER III 

THK GOSSIP OF FRIENDS 

B eatrice and Effie Bailey, with two other girls, 
who were pretty, but dull and shy, were all 
brushing their hair in Beatrice’s room. Nan, who 
shared it with her, had been kept downstairs by Mrs. 
Bailey. All the girls knew why perfectly well, and 
they found the incident a very much more interesting 
topic of discussion than their own little experiences of 
the evening. 

“It ’s been very quick,” said Beatrice, seriously; 
“ very quick indeed. I hope she really likes him.” 

“ Everyone can’t be as slow as you and George Sut- 
ton,” said Effie, cheerfully. “ He took a year to ask 
you, and you a month to answer him, and goodness 
knows when you mean to be married. After all, Mr. 
Stravil has known Nannie three mouths, and I don’t 
suppose she ’ll be married in a fortnight. She could n’t 
get her clothes in the time.” 

“ I wonder what he said ? ” murmured one of the shy 
girls. 


26 


The Gossip of Friends 


27 


“ Oh, they all say pretty much the same thing,” cried 
EfEe. “ ‘ You ’re so good — you ’re so good — you ’re 
so good.’ You are so good and beautiful that it ’s a 
wonder you don^t fluff right up into heaven and leave 
them staring after you with their mouths open. Of 
course, if you ’ve got any sense, you don’t believe a 
word of it, but you know it ’s the right thing for men 
in their condition to say, so you try to look as if you 
were, and take it quietly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do people say that to you ? ’ ’ asked the less shy 
of the two shy girls, who was the more dull, and, like 
many dull people, was very often rude in the hope of 
being witty. 

” They have n’t yet, because I ’m only just out ; 
but they will, you ’ll see. I ’ll tell you all about it 
when they do.” 

“ What nonsense she talks — what nonsense everyone 
talks,” said Ella, who had come from the adjoining 
room in time to hear the last sentences, and seemed a 
little cross and tired. ” What a mistake it is to bring 
girls up in the belief that they will be loved in propor- 
tion as they deserve it. I never met a woman yet who 
was loved because she was good, though here and there 
one hears of one who is loved in spite of it.” 

Ella had seated herself on the edge of the bed, with 
the flounce of her scarlet skirt flying out on each side 
of her like a fan, and her scarlet shoes straight out in 
front of her. Certainly she justified Nan’s instinct to 


28 


The Priest’s Marriage 


wear white in her company. When Ella wore scarlet, 
she talked scarlet, and smiled scarlet, and gave the 
impression that her whole nature was scarlet. A man 
might have been a little startled. The girls were not ; 
they knew that next day she would probably wear 
dove color, and talk and act up to it consistently. 

The shyer girl blushed and spoke : 

“ I was watching to-night, and I am sure he loves 
Annie because she is good. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, no,” cried Kffie ; “ Ella is right. Nan is 
good, of course, dreadfully good ; but Mr. Stravil 
does n’t love her for that. He loves her because he 
thinks she ’s good ; but he only thinks she ’s good be- 
cause she ’s so pretty; and, after all, there ’s reason in 
it. Goodness is such a heavy thing to manage ; not 
one woman in fifty can make it really interesting. 
Wickedness, of course, is interesting in itself.” 

“ If you talk like that, you and Ella,” said the dull 
girl, ‘ ‘ you will frighten away all your lovers, and then 
you ’ll never be married.” 

” But we don’t talk like that,” said Efl5e ; “ at least 
not in public. If I have any ideas — and one can’t help 
having them sometimes — I save them till I ’m going to 
bed, and there ’s nobody to be shocked but Bee.” 

” I don’t have to do that. I ’m too stupid natur- 
ally,” said the shy girl, ” so I suppose I ought to 
marry very well.” 

‘'That ’s quite a different thing,” said Ella, who 


The Gossip of Friends 


29 


was screwing her hair into pins. “ Natural stupidity 
is like naturally curly hair, it never twists in quite the 
right way. You ’ll have to learn to be clever, Dollie, 
and then learn how to hide it.” 

“Yes,” said Kffie ; “ because the husband who mar- 
ried you for not being clever would be sure to neglect 
you for not being clever afterwards. The really clever 
thing is to make him love you because he thinks you a 
silly, ignorant little thing, and then make him go on 
loving you because he finds you a clever woman. ’ ’ 

“ I never saw the attraction of wickedness,” said 
Beatrice, who was generally a sentence or two behind 
a conversation, and was thinking of George Sutton. 

“ Oh, I did n’t mean in a man,” said KUa, in prompt 
apology. “ Good men are extremely interesting. 
When a woman is good, it is merely because she is the 
average woman ; when a man is good, that ’s original- 
ity and character. Besides, one never quite knows 
what a good man won’t do next. If George Sutton 
came to you to-morrow and told you that he was tired 
of theoretical socialism, and meant to be practical and 
give all he had to the poor, and go round with a coal 
cart, you would n’t be surprised ; what is worse, I 
don’t believe you would give him up.” 

“ No,” said Beatrice, “ I would n’t.” 

“ George’s socialism won’t ever go much further 
than wearing jaeger shirts,” said Kfiie, consolingly, 
“ and there ’s not much harm in that. But there ’s a 


30 The Priest’s Marriage 

great deal of aggravation if he ’s going to be related to 
you.” 

” I suppose,” said the shyest girl, ” that Mr. Stravil 
is very wicked ? ” 

” Mr. Stravil ! ” 

Ella suddenly sat up straight on the bed, and drew 
in her shoes. 

‘‘ Are you talking about Annie and Mr. Stravil ? ” 
she said. 

“ Why, yes, of course,” said Beatrice ; ” did n’t you 
know — we ’ve been expecting it for weeks, and we are 
sure that he proposed to her to-night. That is why 
mother is keeping her downstairs — to hear all about it.” 

Ella was standing now, looking very white and very 
much shocked. 

” But Mr. Stravil can’t marry ; he ’s a priest.” 

There was a moment’s silence ; for Ella’s tone took 
them by surprise. Then Beatrice spoke : 

” He was a priest at one time, I believe, but he 
changed his religion when he was old enough to choose 
for himself ; he told mother so. That was a long time 
ago. He is just like any other man now.” 

” Very much like any other man, only more so,” 
said Effie. ” Why, he has been quite wild ; I heard 
mother talking about it to Mrs. Fuller. And of course 
they both thought he was all the more likely to settle 
down and be a good husband. Mothers always think 
that when the man has plenty of money.” 


The Gossip of Friends 


31 


“ He can never be a husband,” said Klla ; ” he will 
always be a priest.” 

” Surely,” said the less shy girl, ” people have the 
right to change their opinions. Why look at 
IvUther.” 

Mentally the rest of the party looked at lyUther, and 
were satisfied. Ella repeated the name, letting it drop 
off her lips like a term of opprobrium. 

” It ’s shocking,” she said ; “ I can’t believe Annie 
will do such a thing.” 

‘ ‘ Why whom did you think we were talking about ? ’ ’ 
asked Effie. 

” Mr. Archer, of course.” 

” Oh, she could n’t marry him ; why, she ’s known 
him years and years. Besides, he has n’t any money.” 

‘ ‘ He always looks as if he had a great deal, ’ ’ said 
Ella, thoughtfully ; “ but, to be sure, that ’s the special 
privilege of people who have n’t any ; perhaps he ex- 
pects to have some some day.” 

Ella seemed to have dropped Eustace Stravil on con- 
sidering Mr. Archer’s circumstances. At that moment 
Annie came into the room. She looked a little startled 
and distressed to see the girls still there. She had 
lingered downstairs longer than was necessary to satisfy 
Mrs. Bailey on purpose to give them time to disperse. 

” Here you are at last,” cried Effie. ” Of course 
we ’re all talking about you. Do tell us, like a dear 
girl, are you engaged ? But of course you are.” 


32 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Yes,” said Nan, shyly, too happy to feel offended 
at the question ; “ it ’s not a secret, and I ’m very 
happy, and it ’s nice of you to care, but I wish — I 
mean I ’m very sleepy, so please let me go to bed 
quietly, like dear girls.” 

“ Oh, but we must talk a little. We want to con- 
gratulate you.” 

“ Ella does n’t want to congratulate you,” said the 
dull girl. 

” No,” said the shyer one, who, like most shy peo- 
ple, could nearly always summon courage enough to 
say the thing best left unsaid. “No, she ’s been say- 
ing you ought n’t to do it.” 

“Ella?” 

Annie turned to her friend. Ella’s face was quite 
grave and stern. She did not speak. The shy girl, 
warned by a glance from Efiie, guessed she had made 
a mistake, and, thinking an explanation better than 
the truth, went on fluently : 

“ She thinks you have behaved badly to Mr. Archer.” 

“ No one must say anything so silly about me 
and Dick,” said Nan, indignantly. “ I have n’t be- 
haved badly ; I ’ve behaved exactly as he ’d want me 
to behave. Dick is my friend. ” 

“ I don’t believe in friends,” said the dull girl, 
giggling. 

“You would if you had a friend like Dick. If you 
believed in them perhaps you might have one.” 


The Gossip of Friends 


33 


Annie spoke a little sharply, unfairly treating the 
dull girl’s mistake as a second offence, because another 
person had made it previously. 

Ella stood looking at her doubtfully. The two girls 
were fond of each other, despite the contrast of their 
characters, and some difference in their ages ; not a 
very great difference, but Ella had the experience of 
five seasons, while Nan, except for her friendship with 
Dick, had lived almost the life of a nun until this year. 
Ella had always considered her as a child as far as 
character went. She stood looking at her. Annie 
looked very happy, and sweet, and good, but tired, as 
she had said. Ella’s courage failed her. She kissed 
her friend good-night, and, taking her candle, retired 
to the inner room, which was her’s exclusively. There 
was an impression among the other girls that the 
manipulation of her complexion must be left private. 

“ That ’s right,” said Effie, ” let her go and say her 
prayers. She always says her prayers for half an hour 
out of a book. I never knew anyone say so many 
prayers and wear such low frocks in my life.” 

Nan was still looking in the direction Ella had gone. 
Beatrice came up and put an arm round her waist. 

” Was it really about Mr. Archer ? ” said Nan. 

” No ; it is some nonsense about Mr. Stravil’s old 
religion,” said Bee. ” Ella ’s so very High Church, 
you know. Don’t mind her.” 

“ I don’t,” said Nan ; “ but it ’s silly of her.” 

3 


34 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Run away to bed, all of you ; Nan is tired, and if 
she was n’t, she does n’t want to sit up all night and 
chatter nonsense about serious things, ” said Beatrice, 
a little vexed at Ella’s view, and troubled that Nan 
should seem to take it so to heart. 

“ If Nan’s engagement is going to be as serious as 
yours, I ’m sure I don’t want to talk about it,” said 
Effie, gathering up her properties. 

“Don’t be cross, Effie,” said Nan, kissing her; 
“ you will know some day that when you ’re very 
happy you can’t talk about it.” 

“ Oh, that ’s all right, if you own that you ’re 
happy,” said Effie, mollified; “ but it ’s rather hard to 
be turned out without a word when I ’ve been just as 
anxious as mother or anybody for it to turn out all 
right.” 

Eeft alone, Beatrice and Nan looked at each other 
and laughed a little. 

“ I ’ve been through all that,” said Beatrice. “ Be- 
fore I ’d had time to know whether I even wanted 
George to like me or not, all my aunts and uncles had 
told mother it was time the affair was either off or on. 
But I ’m very pleased, dear. You won’t mind my 
saying as much as that ? ” 

“ No, I ’m very pleased myself; it ’s lovely to be 
loved.” 

“ It ’s lovely to love,” said Beatrice ; “ but one finds 
that out later. It ’s lovely to find the man not quite 


The Gossip of Friends 


35 


perfect, and not care ; and to be irritated a little with 
him now and then, and not mind that either, because 
his faults belong to you more than anything else about 
him.” 

“ I suppose Eustace has faults,” said Nan, in a large- 
minded, tolerant tone, “just the same as George 
Sutton.” 

“ Not the same kind,” said Beatrice. “ I suppose 
Mr. Stravil’s faults are the sort a man gives up when 
he is married ; so perhaps you ’ll never see them at all. 
George’s are the little aggravating faults a man need n’t 
give up. Jaeger shirts, and keeping me waiting, and 
arguing about socialism with people there ’s no chance 
of convincing. But, at any rate, you won’t have any- 
one to din Mr. Stravil’s faults into your ears as mother 
and Effie do George’s into mine. They would n’t irri- 
tate me half so much if I had n’t always to be denying 
them. If I had it all over again, I should n’t do that. 
When they said he was this, or that, or the other, I 
should just say, ‘Yes, I know, that ’s why I like 
him.’ ” 

“ I hope mother will like Eustace and be pleased,” 
said Nan. “ Oh, I do hope mother and Dick will like 
him !” 




CHAPTER IV 

WARNED 

M rs. FUETON did like her daughter’s lover, and 
the preliminaries of the marriage went very 
smoothly indeed. Dick, too, had nothing to say of 
Stravil that was not pleasant. He was a little startled 
on hearing that he had been a fully ordained priest, in- 
stead of having merely intended to become one ; but 
quite understood that Mrs. Fulton would deal very 
lightly with the one point where her protegi' s eligibility 
might have been held to fail by a more exacting mother. 
At any rate, the circumstances accounted for a certain 
gaucherie that was apt to show itself at moments when 
the man was evidently anxious to be at his best. He 
was never quite at his best except at times when Annie 
was not present, and he was talking of ordinary mat- 
ters. Dick liked him, on the whole ; and at moments 
when he did not was still able to admit that he was a 
man a woman might well be fond of. He did not see 
very much of the lovers — on the contrary, he showed a 
most comfortable and brotherly desire to efface himself. 
36 


Warned 


37 


Moreover a sudden rush of work in lyord Feltringham’s 
department kept him much occupied, and Eustace was 
so devoted a JiancS that Nan had very little time to 
spare for anyone else. 

One day Dick came on her in a quiet corner of Ken- 
sington Gardens, and was a little surprised. 

‘ ‘ Why are you wandering about alone ? ” he said ; 
“ you ’ll get lost.” 

“ That ’s why I came,” said Nan. “ It ’s so nice to 
get lost in Kensington Gardens ; you find such wonder- 
ful things. This morning I found these two delightful 
trees with shining leaves, and I was so pleased I nearly 
went up and kissed them, only one of the park-keepers 
might have seen me. Are n’t they just like woolwork 
trees cut out of a sampler ? I’m quite sure they are n’t 
real. At least, I never saw them before, and I ’m quite 
sure I shall never find them again.” 

” Eet ’s sit down under them, now we ’ve the oppor- 
tunity,” said Dick ; ” unless you want to be left alone 
and go on being lost.” 

“ No,” said Nan ; “ but I did want to be alone 
when I came out. It ’s such a change, you know, to 
have someone wanting 3^ou all the time — and to want 
him, too, of course. It ’s lovely to be in love, but it 
would be lovelier, would n’t it, if one could have a 
‘ day off’ now and then. If one could quite stop being 
in love every Wednesday, for instance, and not care a 
bit for anyone, but be just as one was before. Of 


38 


The Priest’s Marriage 


course, I know that now I love Eustace if I were to 
lose him I should want to die ; but I should like every 
now and then not to know that. It ’s rather terrible 
to love as much as that, is n’t it ? ” 

“ You ’ll get used to it,” said Dick ; ” that ’s what 
engagements are for, you know.” 

“ I wish ours were going to be longer.” 

“Why?” 

“ Well, there would be more time to get used to being 
so dreadfully fond of any one ; besides it ’s very nice to 
be engaged.” 

“If you find it so, I dare say you ’ll find it ever so 
much nicer to be married. ’ ’ 

“ All married people seem a little dull and prosy, 
don’t you think ? ” said Nan. 

“Not all, ’ ’ said Dick. ‘ ‘ Is that what ’s making you 
afraid ? ” 

“ Am I afraid ? ” asked Nan. “ Is that why I want 
a holiday ? I don’t think it ’s that. If one had a 
lovely diamond necklace, one would n’t give it up for 
anything, but one would n’t want to wear it every day. 
One would want a holiday from that. ’ ’ 

“ And to take to the little pearl heart on the chain 
again,” said Dick, looking to see if it was there. 

“ Nothing round one’s neck at all ! ” cried Annie, 
springing to her feet. “ To be quite free ! Dick, shall 
we run a race ? ” 

“ I think not,” said Dick. 


Warned 


39 


“ Why not ? We ’ve often run before. I remember 
once we ran all down this slope to the pathway hand- 
in-hand, as hard as we could go.” 

“We were late for something, were n’t we ? ” 

” I dare say. We can pretend we 're late for some- 
thing now.” 

” No, we can’t,” said Dick gravely ; ” no one can. 
If one ’s conscious of running with a reason, it ’s easy 
enough to run, but it ’s impossible to get up and run 
in cold blood. One is so self-conscious that there ’s no 
pleasure in it. Besides, there is a park-keeper ; he 
would think we were running to avoid paying for the 
chairs.” 

Annie dropped back into her chair again. 

” Is n’t it wonderful ? ” she said ; ” they always find 
you, however many trees there arc between. I believe 
they have wings under their coats and hang in the air 
like hawks, so that they can see all over the park and 
then swoop down just far enough off to pretend they 
have been walking. Why are you so grave ? Are you 
thinking about what I said just now ? Is it wrong ? ” 

‘ ‘ I was thinking about it ; of course it is not wrong. 
Kvery girl — at least every girl like you — would feel 
just the same. The instinct of girlhood must make 
some fight before it goes under. I dare say it will re- 
mind you often how good it was, but if you like mar- 
riage better, it must go, of course ; and you do like 
marriage better ? ” 


40 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“I do, Dick.” She looked at him, laughing and 
coloring. ‘ ‘ That ’s j ust it. I like it dreadfully better. ’ ’ 

“Well, you can’t keep both, you know.” 

“ I wish one could. It ’s horrid to give up any- 
thing ; but I suppose it ought n’t to be if one gets 
something better. How did you know that about 
girls?” 

“ I did n’t ; you told me just now. At least, that ’s 
the way I understood what you said.” 

The park-keeper came up then and received his pen- 
nies, calm and smiling, with the unaggressive air that 
only an English ofi&cial can maintain inside a uniform. 

“ Eet ’s walk a little way,” said Annie, restlessly. 
“You were going across the park to have tea with 
mother and me, were you not ? But there ’s plenty of 
time.” 

They walked on as far as the bridge over the Serpen- 
tine, and leaned against the parapet talking carelessly. 

Presently Annie saw Ella Payne coming round the 
corner of the road from Paddington with Mark Scars- 
dale. She felt herself coloring, for the two had not 
met since that night at the Baileys’, when Ella had said 
tiresome things. 

She was just beginning to feel relieved that Mark 
Scarsdale was with Ella, so that she could not stop, 
when she did stop. There was rather an effective 
parting between the two, and then Mark Scarsdale 
took the path homewards along the north side of the 


Warned 


41 


Serpentine, and Ella prepared to go back the way she 
had come. 

“ Dick,” said Annie, “ you were going to our house, 
were n’t you ? Will you go on now, and I ’ll come 
home by the time tea is ready. Ella ’s there, and I 
want to speak to her. ’ ’ 

“Shall I wait for you?” said Dick. “You will 
probably ask her to come too, won’t you ? ” 

“ No ; it ’s something a little disagreeable. I ’ve 
been trying to shirk saying it for days and days, but I 
must say it some time, so I want to get it over. Do go; 
mother will be so pleased to see you, and I sha’n’t be 
ten minutes after you. Tell mother it will be quite 
safe to order tea — I shall be as quick as that. ’ ’ 

“ Shall I say you will be just long enough to say 
something disagreeable to Miss Payne ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, no. Ella said it ; and I should n’t like mother 
to know. I want to tell her it ’s nonsense ; that ’s all. ’ ’ 
Annie had her reason for running now, so ran with 
a good grace and soon overtook Ella, who was walking 
slowly. 

“ Please stop, Ella. You know I ’m here, and I 
want to speak to you,” she cried. 

“ It ’s a lovely day for walking,” said Ella. 

“ It ’s a great deal too hot for running,” said Annie. 
“ You might have waited.” 

“You were not alone,” said Ella. “ I never inter- 
rupt people.” 


42 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ You could n’t very well ; you were n’t alone your- 
self,” said Nan. 

“No, not at first. ’ ’ Ella gave a little impatient sigh. 
“ I wanted to speak to you, too,” she said. “ Were 
you quite in earnest in what you said about there being 
nothing between you and Mr. Archer ? ” 

“ Of course I was. It would have been horribly 
mean of me to have treated Dick as you thought ; but 
it would be meaner to let you think I could have done 
that, when I could n’t. There ’s nothing of that sort 
between me and Dick.” 

“But people hate their friends to desert them,” said 
Ella. 

“ Not if they ’re going to be married themselves ; if 
one was n’t, it would be different. It would be horrid 
to have another girl everything and oneself the second 
best, but still one would n’t have the right to grumble. 
Friends are quite free.” 

“ How about your making Mr. Archer second best 
by marrying Mr. Stravil, then ? ” 

“ It ’s quite different for a man ; you know it is. A 
married woman can have men friends, but a married 
man can’t have women friends. I don’t know why, 
but it does n’t matter. That ’s not what you are 
shocked at me about ; it ’s not important enough to 
make you avoid me as you have done, and never come 
to congratulate me on my engagement.” 

“ No, ” said Ella ; “ it was n’t. Nan ” —she stopped 


Warned 


43 


short in the road, and spoke quite impulsively — ‘ ‘ Why, 
Nan, dear, as if it mattered how you treated other men 
when you find the man you want. It was n’t the man 
you are not marrying, but the man you are marrying — 
if it can be called a marriage — that troubled me. 
Has n’t your mother said anything — your clergyman — 
or even Mr. Archer ? ’ ’ 

“ What about ? ” 

‘ ‘ This thing that you are doing. Has no one warned 
you ? It is a sin — the sin of sacrilege.” 

Nan looked amazed for a moment. Then Ella’s 
meaning broke on her, and contrasted with Ella’s 
frocks, Ella’s ways, her worldly wit, that effective 
parting with the poor boy who did not even pretend 
to friendship, it was so extremely amusing that she 
broke into a laugh, but stopped short in a moment. 

“ I beg your pardon, dear, but I could n’t help it. 
It ’s such a queer view for you to take. Of course you 
mean because Eustace was once a priest. Well, I could 
understand a Roman Catholic thinking it wrong of me 
to marry him, but you are not a Roman Catholic, and 
he ’s not, and I ’m not, so I can’t see where the sin can 
possibly be.” 

” A man should be true to the religion of his fore- 
fathers.” 

“ If so, you and I ought to be worshipping oak trees, 
and wearing blue paint, and going to human sacrifices 
instead of to church.” 


44 


The Priest s Marriage 

This rather staggered Ella for a moment. She went 
back to her first argument. 

“ He is a priest. ’ ’ 

“ No,” said Nan ; “ but if he were, there ’s not a 
word in the Bible from beginning to end forbidding 
priests to marry. Of course, if people don’t believe 
in the Bible, that would be no argument ; but if 
anyone objects to anything on religious grounds, 
they are bound to go by the Bible, or else be very 
illogical.” 

” The laws of his Church forbid it.” 

“ Eustace has left that Church for one he believes to 
be better. You believe it better too, or you would n’t 
stay in it.” 

‘ ‘ Do you like to be the cause of a man breaking a 
solemn vow ? ’ ’ 

“ I was n’t ; he had changed his opinions long before 
he met me. ’ ’ 

“You are sanctioning the taking back of a gift given 
to God.” 

“ If anyone gave me a gift I did n’t want and had n’t 
asked for, I’d let them take it back without making 
any fuss,” said Nan. 

” I see it ’s no use arguing,” said Ella; “ but at least 
I have warned you. ’ ’ 

” Well, if you thought it right, it was right for you 
to do it,” said Nan. “ And now you ’ve done your 
duty — it can’t help seeming a little funny, Ella, for 


Warned 


45 


you to do a duty — you ’ll be friends again, won’t you ? 
I want you to be one of the bridesmaids.” 

“ I can’t possibly be a bridesmaid.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I shall be staying with the Hoxtons.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, is the time fixed so far ahead ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am to choose my own time. ’ ’ 

“ Oh ! ” At the moment Nan had nothing to say 
beyond the exclamation. 

The Hoxtons were rich, vulgar people, very anx- 
ious for their sons to marry into ‘ ‘ society ’ ’ ; and 
it was an open secret that the mother, who was the 
ruling spirit of the family, had long set her heart on 
Blla as a wife for her eldest, and richest, and most 
vulgar son. 

“We don’t want no more money,” she said. “We 
wants a smart girl, as will set off ’andsome dresses and 
joolry, and ’old up ’er ’ead against a duchess even, 
and Klla Payne ’s the girl for that.” 

All this had long been a source of amusement among 
the little set. It had amused Klla, too. If she were 
going to stay with the Hoxtons at her own time the 
idea must be taken seriously. 

In the glory and sacredness of her new love such 
a thing seemed to Nan so great a sacrilege that 
she quite forgot her own conduct had been called in 
question. 

“ Then good-bye,” she said ; “lam sorry.” 


46 The Priest’s Marriage 

“ I ’ll not say to anyone else what I ’ve said to you,” 
said Ella. 

” It does not matter at all,” said Nan. 

And really, after the news Ella had told her, it did 
not. 




chapte:r V 

JUST AS IT SHOULD 

T HE) time between Nan’s engagement and her wed- 
ding was very short, and seemed even shorter by 
reason of its being early in the season, when, as Mrs. 
Bailey said, everyone was beginning to be busy and 
felt more in the spirit of forming plans than carrying 
out engagements. 

The marriage had first been proposed for an even 
earlier date, but that had been changed because, at the 
fashionable church which Mrs. Bailey attended, the 
vicar objected to marriages in Tent. This had dis- 
turbed Mrs. Fulton a little. “ I can’t understand 
these High Church clergymen,” she said ; “ they call 
marriage a sacrament, and then put a slur on it.” 
And she was quite anxious that Annie should not be 
told why the first date was changed. “ You see, the 
child ’s so good and innocent,” she said, ” and we 
might make her think there ’s something a little wrong 
in marriage, and it would be a pity if a religious 
ceremony was the first thing to put evil into her 
47 


48 The Priest’s Marriage 

head. I^et us say her frocks could not be got ready 
in time.” 

Good-natured Mrs. Bailey, who loved marriages, and 
loved even better the reputation of being the maker of 
marriages, had begged that the wedding might take 
place from her house, and Mrs. Fulton’s ill-health had 
made her ready enough to consent. The bride and 
bridegroom were to take a short honeymoon, return to 
town for the rest of the season, and then travel again 
in the autumn. This was Mrs. Fulton’s idea ; the one 
point on which she had an opinion. ‘ ‘ She wanted, ’ ’ 
she said, “ to learn to be parted from her daughter by 
degrees.” Eustace protested against the delay at first, 
and then seemed suddenly to realize that this mother 
whom he had scarcely seen, and who had seemed of so 
little account, was really very dear to her daughter, and 
therefore must not be contradicted; but he spoke to Nan 
a little impatiently about it. 

” How many more people do you love ? ” he asked. 
” I thought when I always saw you under Mrs. Bailey’s 
wing that you were a lonely and desolate young person 
with no one to love you but me. Shall I find a dozen 
others to be considered presently ? ’ ’ 

” I only really care for three people in the world,” 
said Nan. ” At least, I care for a girl or two, but not in 
the same way. They don’t count. Three ’snot many.” 

” So long as you are quite sure I come first it ’s not 
many.” 


Just as It should Be 


49 


“ Well, you do, you know.” 

“ Then I won’t even be jealous of your mother.” 

” You have made me feel a little as if I had n’t 
treated you fairly,” said Nan. ” But what could I 
do ? Mother was ill, and Mrs. Bailey was kind enough 
to take me out to parties and things ; it would have 
been rather ungrateful for me to say to everyone I met, 
‘ My mother ’s ever so much nicer than Mrs. Bailey, 
and if she could chaperon me I would n’t have anyone 
else.’ ” 

Eustace laughed. 

” I ’ve said that I won’t be jealous of her,” he said ; 
but he still looked a little impatient, and she came a 
little nearer and laid a hand on his sleeve. 

‘ ‘ If you knew how it made me feel to see you give in 
to mother, you ’d be glad you gave in,” she said. 

” Then I am glad,” he answered, and so the matter 
was settled. 

Ella kept to her resolve not to be a bridesmaid, but she 
also kept her promise of giving no other reason for her 
absence from the wedding than a visit to the Hoxtons. 

” We all know what that means,” Mrs. Bailey said 
to her daughters, not quite certain whether she ap- 
proved or disapproved. 

Beatrice was contemptuous. She thought Ella was 
acting disgracefully in purposing to marry openly for 
money. Effie was equally contemptuous. She thought 
Ella was acting weakly. It was silly to give in so soon. 

4 


50 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ I don’t know how old she is, but she does n’t look 
more than twenty-five. She might have done much 
better if she had had the courage to wait.” 

Mrs. Bailey sighed. 

Marriages, though she loved them, always made her 
sigh. Her own daughters were not doing well. The 
eldest had married a banker ; that was respectable but 
not brilliant ; and she had lately had reason to suspect 
the j^oungest of a clandestine flirtation with an espe- 
cially ineligible curate. Beatrice’s engagement was 
only fairly satisfactory. George Sutton had two thou- 
sand a year, but then he had “ views.” 

‘ ‘ Ella will be ashamed of Herbert Hoxton every time 
he speaks,” said Beatrice. 

” But he speaks so seldom,” said Mrs. Bailey; “ and 
he can give her a thousand pounds for every ‘ h ’ he 
drops. After all, people who speak quite correctly are 
very rare.” 

She sighed again. George Sutton was a University 
man, and a purist in matters of diction ; but what are 
these things worth in a man who wears a cashmere 
collar ? 

Of course. Nan’s wedding was exactly like all other 
weddings ; the ceremony was as late in the day as the 
law allows, Annie looked very pretty and quite calm, 
and Eustace showed no more than does the average 
man how much he disliked the fuss and discomfort. 

After the ceremony and the reception, and the going 


Just as It should Be 


51 


away of the bride, a few of the chief guests stayed on 
to dinner. Dick was amongst them. He had stayed 
chiefly at Mrs. Fulton’s request and that he might take 
her home. 

Come in, ’ ’ she said, when they reached her door. 
“ It ’s not at all late, though beginning things at two 
o’clock in the afternoon always makes one feel it must 
be to-morrow morning at least, by ten o’clock. Come 
in and talk a little. I ’m so glad to see my child so 
happily married ; it ’s such a weight off* one’s mind. I 
have scarcely anything but an annuity, you know, and 
I think he will be very kind to her. You ’ll still be her 
friend, Dick? You won’t drift apart because she ’s 
married ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ said Dick. ‘ ‘ At least, I hope not. But she ’s 
not likely to need friends, with a devoted husband and 
a devoted mother. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What was that you said once about keeping as we 
were? Just we three?” said Mrs. Fulton. “Of 
course, that would have been nicest ; but, since we 
could n’t, this was the next best thing, and I ’m glad 
it’s done. Shall we have some tea ? It ’s such a nice, 
unhealthy thing to have so late at night. No, don’t 
ring. Hannah will have gone to bed. We will make 
it ourselves over a spirit-lamp. She always leaves the 
spirit-lamp ready for me. ’ ’ 

“ You look very white and tired,” said Dick. “ Lie 
down on the sofa and let me wait on you.” 


52 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Very well, and then you can tell Annie afterwards 
that you did, and that will please her. Is n’t it funny ? 
I am speaking as if I were going to die. I have been 
speaking as if I were going to die all the afternoon. I 
made one person cry ; but then people always cry at 
weddings. Once or twice you looked as if you would 
like to cry yourself. Were you dreadfully bored ? All 
the men at a wedding always are bored to death except 
the bridegroom. Annie looked pretty, did n’t she ? ” 

“ Yes, very pretty.” 

‘ ‘ Did you notice how carefully Eustace watched her, 
and how he came and talked to people himself whenever 
they seemed to be worrying her, and how careful he 
was to make her eat enough before they went away ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Dick, shortly ; “ I noticed.” 

” I was watching him so carefully,” said Mrs. Ful- 
ton. ” Those are the little things that show whether 
a man will be a good husband or not. Of course, it 
would have been too late to do anything in any case. 
That ’s why I was so pleased. It ’s such a comfort 
to know that what one has done is right, after one has 
done it. I ’m enjoying this tea very much. I felt 
quite tired.” 

” You look as if a little brandy would do you more 
good. All this worry and excitement has been too 
much for you. You must take a long rest now.” 

” Why, Dick, that sounds as if I were going tp die, 
too — quite emblematic, you know. Turn the lamp up 


Just as It should Be 


53 


a little, and we can be more cheerful. I think it is 
quite odd that Klla did not stay up in town for the 
wedding. She had known Annie so long. I never 
liked her, you know. It cost me a great deal of effort 
to allow the friendship, for I don’t think her a very 
nice girl, you know. And then for her not to come to 
the wedding ! It seems quite ungrateful. I am sure 
she cannot quite like the prospect of marrying that 
dreadful Hoxton young man, though I suppose she ’ll 
do it sooner or later. After all, she is so tall that she 
would have made the procession look one-sided ; and 
somehow I think the bride should always be the tallest 
figure at a wedding. Dick, if you did n’t like this 
marriage, you should have spoken sooner.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Dick was still strug- 
gling with the lamp ; when he turned it up he an- 
swered : 

“The great point is that Nan likes it,” he said. 
“ That is the only thing that really matters.” 

“ And it ’s such a comfort to me that Mr. Stravil 
changed his religion. I do hope no one will ever 
think it a slur on Annie that her husband was once a 
priest. I never thought of that until now. There are 
people who might, you know — foolish, mistaken peo- 
ple, I mean. Of course, I would not have consented 
to the marriage if Eustace had been still a Catholic. 
At least, not unless Annie had loved him very much.” 

‘ ‘ She does love him very much, and everything is 


54 


The Priest’s Marriage 


just as it should be.” He was walking slowly up and 
down the room, scarcely noting his old friend’s gentle 
flow of careless speech. 

“ Yes, everything is exactly as it should be, unless 
you are vexed. Once or twice this afternoon I thought 
you were, but I suppose you were only bored. I ’m 
glad I was mistaken. Will 3^ou put my cup down ? 
Dick, dear, I really think I am dying, after all. Will 
you wake Hannah and go for a doctor ? ” 

Dick stopped short, with an exclamation that was al- 
most a cry. The words seemed so simple and casual that 
for a moment it was impossible to believe them. Then 
some inexplicable change in the delicate face told him 
that they were true. He hurried up-stairs to And the 
servant. There were not many rooms to choose from. 
He hammered at the door he found first, and as soon 
as a sleepy voice answered he called directions for the 
woman to dress and go for a doctor, and then returned 
to the sitting-room. Short as his absence had been, the 
change was more marked. He could not be sure but 
that the beginning of it had been there all the evening, 
only he had not noticed it. 

Mrs. Fulton smiled with pleasure when she saw him 
re-enter. 

” Oh, you ’ve sent Hannah for the doctor and stayed 
yourself. How kind, and how like you! But I meant 
you to go. It will be very horrid for you. ’ ’ 

Somehow it did not occur to him to try and persuade 


Just as It should Be 


55 


her that she was not dying. He went to the sofa, 
raised her head on his shoulder, and held her hand as 
a son might have done. 

The whole catastrophe had come so quickly and so 
quietly. Dick had no time to feel emotion of any sort: 
he was only kind and son-like by instinct, as he had 
often been before when Mrs. Fulton had suffered from 
what seemed merely trifling attacks of fatigue and lassi- 
tude. She lay back on the sofa, talking at intervals in 
her gentle, foolish way, and very apologetic over the 
hardship of a young man having to assist at anything 
so trying as a death. 

“It ’s been a horrid day for you, Dick, dear ; the 
child’s wedding in the morning and this at night.” 

“I’m glad I ’m here,” he said tenderly. “ If you 
had been alone with the servant I should never have for- 
given myself, and Annie would never have forgiven me. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes, she would,” Mrs. Fulton answered. 
“ Annie would have understood. She always under- 
stood you — better, even, than I did. I only liked you; 
I never quite understand anything — I mean, never 
quite so far as you and she do. I’m glad I did n’t 
know what was going to happen, because then, of 
course, you would n’t have been here ; but if you are 
sure you don’t mind, it ’s pleasant to have you. You 
will be able to tell the child that everything is all 
right, and that I was quite easy about going. You 
don’t think I need be afraid, do you ? ” 


56 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“lam quite sure you need not.” 

“ People say we all ought to be afraid : we are all 
sinners without knowing it.” 

“That ’s nonsense. You ’ve injured no one, and 
done your best. Don’t be afraid for a moment.” 

“I’m not afraid, my dear. I only wondered whether 
I ought not to be. I never did think God as exacting 
as some people try to make Him out, but I wish I ’d 
been a little more careful to teach the child to believe 
as she ought. I wonder, Dick, my dear boy — I know 
it ’s a strange thing to ask a smart young man in a 
beautiful frock coat — but do you think you could say 
the Lord’s Prayer for me ? ” 

He could and did. It was horribly incongruous that 
the tragedy of death and eternity should lay hold on 
anyone so simple, and foolish, and gentle, as the frail, 
sweet-voiced woman in his arms. He could not feel 
sorry for anyone who was so contented. He could only 
feel how good and lovable she was, and that she had 
nothing whatever to fear. He said the words very 
softly, watching her lips follow his. It was all so much 
easier than one would have expected. It seemed only 
a few moments since the sleepy servant had gone out 
for the doctor. Death was treating the gentle life very 
gently. Dick, watching every change in the quiet face, 
was scarcely sure when life left it ; but gradually the 
features seemed to grow more noble and strong and 
calm than they had ever been in life. Presently he 


Just as It should Be 


57 


laid her head back on the pillow, and went to admit 
the doctor and the servant. He heard that such a 
death as he had witnessed might have been expected 
any time during the past few years. 

He walked home through a soft, pleasant rain. As 
the kindly old friend he had left lying dead had said, 
it had been a painful day. 




CHAPTER VI 

COMMUNION OF SPIRIT 

E arly next morning Dick went to call on Mrs. 

Bailey, to hear where Annie was, and to ask who 
were the people who ought to be informed of Mrs. Ful- 
ton’s death. Death had its etiquette as well as every- 
thing else, but Dick had no experience of it. Mrs. 
Bailey would probably be as much at home in the 
details of a funeral as those of a dance or a marriage. 
Those managing women had their uses. Since she had 
been so eager to marry the daughter she might very 
well be expected to continue her officiousness ; and at 
this point Dick’s real liking for his old friend rebuked 
his irritation against Mrs. Bailey’s managing ways, 
and he told her of Mrs. Fulton’s death as carefully as 
he could. 

Mrs. Bailey was divided between grief and relief. 
Shocking as was the death of the bride’s mother on the 
wedding night, it would have been worse had it hap- 
pened earlier in the day, or during the ceremony. 

“ I thought she looked strange all yesterday,” Mrs, 
58 


Communion of Spirit 


59 


Bailey said. “ One or two people noticed it. They 
thought that she spoke strangely, too. I knew this 
might be expected, but I had no idea of its happening 
so soon. Why, I should have asked her to stay here, 
only my house was full. But for that it might have 
happened here, in a drawing-room full of people. We 
danced after you left. We did n’t break up till quite 
late. Still it is horrible to think of her going home and 
dying quite alone.” 

” She was n’t altogether alone. I was there, you 
know.” 

” All the while ? ” 

” Yes ; I had gone in for a few moments. When 
she felt ill we sent for a doctor, but she died before he 
came. ’ ’ 

“ My dear Mr. Archer, how very dreadful for you ! ” 

It was Mrs. Fulton’s protest against the inappropri- 
ateness of his presence over again. It irritated him 
from Mrs. Bailey ; but then everything irritated him 
from Mrs. Bailey. He said, ” Not at all,” a little im- 
patiently, and then added : 

“Will you write to Mrs. Stravil ? ” 

Mrs. Bailey began to cry. 

“ Of course someone must,” she said ; “ but I can’t. 
I really can’t. Annie was devoted to her mother. She 
will feel this so terribly, especially at such a time. 
Won’t you write, just to break it to her? and then I 
will write a day or two later and say how sorry I am.” 


6o 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Very well. Where is she ? ” 

“ Why, that ’s the difficulty. We don’t know. 
Don’t you ? I made sure you would.” 

“ No ; of course not. Mrs. Fulton had no time to 
tell me. It was so sudden, you know ; we had only a 
few moments.” 

“ I thought perhaps Annie might have told you 
where they were going, since you are such friends. 
Mr. Stravil would n’t tell us. He said they did n’t 
want letters. Why, it may be a week before we hear 
from them, and then there will be a day or two before 
our letter reaches them. There must be a trustee, or 
family lawyer, or someone. I had better go down to 
the house and see if I can find out, had n’t I ? ” 

It was really the only thing to be done, and was ex- 
actly what Dick had expected. He received word in 
the evening that Mrs. Bailey had found all the neces- 
sary instructions without difficulty. Mrs. Fulton, it 
seems, had had some knowledge that death would come 
to her suddenly, and had made her preparations ac- 
cordingly. 

There was a trustee, an old friend of the family, who 
lived in the north. He was summoned by telegraph, 
but was glad enough to leave all the details of the affair 
to anyone who would undertake their management. 
Mrs. Bailey fixed the date of the funeral as late as pos- 
sible, in the hope of hearing from the Stravils, and under- 
took to let Dick know directly she had their address. 


Communion of Spirit 6i 

It was only the day before the funeral that a little 
note from Annie gave the address in a remote Scotch 
village. Mrs. Bailey was for telegraphing, ' but Dick 
protested. 

‘ ‘ There is no telegraph ofl&ce there, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ The 
message could only be sent on by post, so a letter will 
reach her just as soon. As she can’t possibly come in 
time for the funeral, there is no reason in frighten- 
ing her by a telegram. If you want to give me the 
work of telling her you must let me write it,” and he 
wrote. 

Annie and her husband had found lovely weather in 
their little Scotch village. They had a sea at their feet 
as blue as the Bay of Naples, and the wonderful deep, 
clear northern sky that seems not to stretch above them 
like the half of a globe, but to rise up and up from the 
horizon like the inner side of a tall dome that has its 
summit in the furthest limit of space. There was snow 
on the peaks of the hills that seemed close upon them, 
but they were sitting among primroses and violets, on 
the ground, with their hats off, and he was fanning her 
with a week-old copy of the Queen. 

“ I think this is the loveliest place in the whole 
world, ’ ’ said Annie. 

“ It ’s an ideal place to be happy in. Why are you 
laughing ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, we were n’t very miserable when we had to 
wait an hour and a half for our train at Aberdeen.” 


62 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ When yon say things like that,” said Eustace, 
” you make me feel ” — he stopped. 

” Well, what ? ” she said. 

” You ’ll be frightened if I tell you — you ’re such 
a saint, you don’t like to be loved as much as I love 
you.” 

” Why, I like to be loved as much as it is possible for 
anyone to love me. What did I say ? ’ ’ 

” You said you could be happy in — well, Hades, with 
me, or words to that effect. ’ ’ 

” I did n’t know I said so,” said Nan ; “ but if I did 
it ’s true. Yes, I suppose if one could be happy in a 
railway station one could be happy anywhere. ’ ’ 

” I should n’t be happy in railway stations,” said 
Eustace ; “ there ’d be such a crowd.” 

” I wonder why you dislike other people so much. 
I don’t. You ’ve got me and I you just as much in a 
crowd. ’ ’ 

” No, I have n’t. I half lose you ; you exist for 
other people as well as me. Here there are only you 
and I in the world. It ’s almost as desolate as if you 
were away when other people are with us. ’ ’ 

” Would it be very desolate if I were away ? ” asked 
Nan. ” No, don’t look like that ; I ’m serious, not 
fishing for pretty speeches. It is n’t like that with me. 
I should never be desolate even if you were at the other 
side of the world. It would make me happy always to 
know you were in the world somewhere and loved me. 


Communion of Spirit 63 

I used to be ever so happy, sitting alone, and thinking 
how we loved each other when we were engaged. ’ ’ 

“ Communion of spirit,’* he quoted, 

“ But I, who am human and weak, 

Would give all my income from Dreamland 
For one touch of my hand on her cheek.” 

“ That *s what ’s so funny,” said Nan, wondering 
a little. “ I always thought it was the woman who 
liked the petting and coaxing best, and you seem to 
think so much of it. Sometimes I wish you would n’t. 
Is that horrid of me ? ” 

Not at all. I love you for it. ” 

“ And it ’s not because I don’t love you as much as 
you love me. I know it ’s not that.” 

“If it were, that would be quite as it should be. I 
should not complain so long as I had you.” 

‘ ‘ Well, you have me sure enough, ’ ’ she said. “ It ’s 
so funny to quite belong to someone now. Just think. 
A year ago I did n’t even know you, and now no one 
else in the world matters at all.” 

“ Say that again,” he cried. 

“ No one else matters at all by comparison.” 

“ That ’s not quite the same.” 

“ But it will do, won’t it ? ” 

“ Supposing,” he said, “ supposing you had to 
choose between me and everyone else in the world — 
you won’t have to — but supposing ? ” 


64 The Priest’s Marriage 

“ Why, I had,” she said, “ in church last week, you 
know.” 

He was on higher ground than she. He drew her 
towards him, almost roughly, till her head lay on his 
knee, the face turned towards him. 

“You love like a saint,” he said ; “ not like a wo- 
man. You make me worship you. It was women 
like you first made men call marriage holy. You 
should n’t have been married of your free will, 
in white satin, with a troop of silly bridesmaids. 
You are out of place. I should have come with 
a gang of bravos and carried you off by force from 
a convent. I ’d have done it. Why don’t you look 
shocked ? ’ ’ 

“ I ’m not shocked. I ’m sure I should not have 
been in the convent by my own choice, so I should 
have been glad you carried me off, and thanked God, 
just as I do now, for letting us be married.” 

‘ ‘ Why drag in God, dear ? ’ ’ 

“ I did n’t mean to. I’m never going to worry you 
about religion. Of course — you won’t mind my saying 
this, will you ? — of course I was just a little frightened 
when I found you did n’t believe in anything at all, 
but I do hope that some day you will find out that — 
well, that you ’ve been friends with God all along, like 
St. Christopher ; and you are better than I am as it is. 
But when one is as happy as I am, one could n’t bear 
it if one had n’t God to thank. You don’t mind ? ” 


Communion of Spirit 65 

“No. I ’m not superstitious. If I were I would 
quote a German poem.” 

“ I should n’t understand it.” 

“ I ’ll put it in English — badly, of course. 

Oh, man, thou hast two chambers in thy heart. 

And there dwell joy and grief, 

Near, but apart. 

When sorrow in her chamber wakes and weeps. 

Why then joy sleeps. 

Wakes joy and sings ? Sing soft, for joy’s own sake, 
Lest, hearing, sorrow wake. 

Do you understand that ? ’ ’ 

“Not quite.” 

‘ ‘ When we are very happy it is not wise to call at- 
tention to it.” 

“ I don’t think you really mean things like that, ” 
said Nan. 

“Wise woman, make it a rule never to believe your 
husband means things that irritate you.” 

They walked slowly down the hill again, and back 
to their hotel. Dinner was waiting for them, and let- 
ters. Eustace took his and gave her one. She saw it 
was in Dick’s hand, and took it with her as she went 
up-stairs to remove her hat. Eustace following a few 
moments later found her standing white-faced and hor- 
rified with the letter clutched in her hand. She ran to 
him. 

“ Eustace,” she cried; “ Eustace, read this ! Mother 

— oh, read it, dear, and then I need n’t tell you.” 

5 


66 


The Priest’s Marriage 


He began to read Archer’s letter. He read it to the 
end slowly, and without speaking. His silence seemed 
unnatural at such a time. It troubled Annie. 

“ On our wedding night,” she sobbed is n’t it 
horrible?” 

He looked up : his face amazed her still more. 
Emotions she could not read were fighting in it, but 
grief was not among them. When he spoke, it was 
almost with defiance. 

“It ’s a coincidence,” he cried ; “a mere coinci- 
dence. Don’ t let it frighten you. You don’t deserve it. ’ ’ 
‘ ‘ A coincidence ? Frighten me — of course not. But 
dear, sweet little mother — and we were so happy and 
did n’t know. Don’t you understand we sha’n’t see her 
any more at all ? And she would have liked so much 
to know how happy I was, and how good you were. 
What did you mean by saying it was a coincidence ? ” 

“ Nothing, darling, nothing.” Eustace was himself 
now again, and he took her in his arms and kissed her 
tenderly. “ I was too startled to know what I said. 
I ’m very, very sorry for you, dear, and for myself too. 
I was fond of her. You remember I was fond of her, 
and agreed to go back to town next week because she 
wished us to. Don’t cry, dear, don’t cry so. I ’ll take 
you abroad and show you beautiful places, and love 
you so much that you won’t miss your mother. You ’ll 
be content to have no one to love but me. ’ ’ 

He comforted her, and grieved with her, until she 


Communion of Spirit 


67 


seemed to forget his strangeness of manner at the first ; 
coaxed her to eat a little dinner, and was all that the 
most loving husband could be at such a time. 

Later, when she found herself alone, Annie re-read 
Dick’s letter. 

“ My dear Annie, 

“ I am going to break in on your happiness with 
very sad news. Your dear, kind little mother died last 
Thursday night. Poor little girl, this is dreadful for 
you, and I am more sorry for you than I can say, but 
as for the dear little mother, knowing that you were 
safely taken care of, she was almost pleased. It seems 
this might have happened at any time, and her thought 
was that it might have come when you would have 
missed her more. She talked to the last about you and 
your marriage, and had noticed all day little things in 
your husband’s bearing that made her happy about 
you. When I see you I will tell you almost word for 
word what she said. I would come now, only a hus- 
band is a better comforter than any friend, is n’t he ? 
Lven a friend who is as sorry as I am.” 

Then followed a few details of matters it was neces- 
sary for Annie to know, but that was the letter. How 
like Dick, to know and say every word that would make 
her loss seem less bitter ! Her mother had died, it 
seemed, thanking God for her happy marriage. 

‘ ‘ Coincidence ! What a strange word for anyone to 
use at such a time ! ” 



CHAPTER VII 

A PARTING 

E lea came back from the Hoxtons’ unengaged, 
after all. Beatrice congratulated her openly. 

‘ ‘ I thought you could n’t do it, ” she said. ‘ ‘ There ’s 
no excuse for a girl over twenty-four marrying for any- 
thing but love. ’ ’ 

This had been at the end of an early call at the 
Baileys’, when, after hearing of Mrs. Fulton’s death, 
and that the Stravils were in Italy, she had risen to 
take her leave. Ella had only smiled, and made no 
answer. 

“ She means to marry him sooner or later. Bee,” 
said Effie. ” I ’m sure of it. She ’s only waiting 
until the neighborhood stops being surprised at them.” 

Ella was meanwhile justifying Effie’s remark in re- 
gard to Mark Scarsdale, and yet at the exact moment 
the amusement was not altogether on her side. Im- 
pressive Ella had one very weak point. She was hor- 
ribly afraid at crossings. They were Scarsdale’ s one 
occasion of triumph. It must be owned he made the 
68 


A Parting 


69 


most of them, generally choosing a crowded time, and 
making the crossing as difficult as possible. This 
afternoon he had succeeded in making Ella completely 
lose her temper. She dare not protest among the 
traffic, but as soon as she had reached the pavement 
she stood still and said the harshest thing she could 
think of 

“ I would n’t marry you if you had fifty thousand a 
year, ’ ’ she said. 

“ Fifty thousand pounds ! Oh, yes, I think you 
would.” 

Mark had stopped, too, and was considering her 
calmly. She got over her temper quickly, for she 
knew temper is only becoming as a momentary flash. 
They walked on a little way, and then she said : 

“ Well, I would n’t do it for less.” 

” Do you think I don’t know that very well ? ” he 
said. ‘ ‘ Oh, yes, look as surprised as you like. I am 
in earnest now. Do you think I have n’t understood 
you all this time ? Well, I have. You like me. You 
like me better than anyone else. I ’ve seen you give 
me up for good again and again in your heart. You 
have always given me up, in a way. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then I wonder you care for me. ’ ’ 

“I’m going to tell you why if I can. I know very 
well myself, but I can’t make it plain in words. If 
you were as heartless as you try to think yourself, I 
should n’t care for you ; or if I were too great a fool to 


70 


The Priests Marriage 


understand you, I would n’t care ; but you ’re fond of 
me, and you ’ve never hidden that ; and you would n’t 
marry me because I ’m poor, and you ’ve never hidden 
that ; but if you don’t, you ’ll be as miserable as I shall, 
and you could n’t hide that either. I dare say you 
think you did, but you did n’t. Do you think that 
when I knew you were n’t going to marry me I should 
n’t have been too proud to hang round you, and take 
as much as you would give me, if I had n’t known 
you enjoyed it as much as I did ? But it ’s gone on 
long enough now, so I ’m going away.” 

” I think you ’d better go.” 

“ I know I had better.” 

“I’ve wanted to say something like this often,” said 
Ella; “only — well — it was n’t easy till you began. 
There are so many of us at home, Mark, and the others 
are so very ugly. One of the family must marry well. ’ ’ 

“ Don’t forget that I, at least, have n’t asked you to 
marry badly. ’ ’ 

“You need n’t be brutal.” 

“ Oh, yes, I need — you don’t know. Have you any 
prospect of marrying well ? ” 

“ I don’t know — I — I have n’t thought about it.” 

“ I don’t believe you have ever thought about any- 
thing else since you were a baby — except your clothes, 
of course. ’ ’ 

“You seemed to think just now that I had thought 
about you just a little.” 


A Parting 71 

“Yes, but that was only in relation to clothes and 
marrying well.” 

She looked rather keenly at his handsome boyish 
face. It told her nothing except that he saw through 
her, and loved her, and was very miserable. She kept 
back what would have been a sigh as she answered : 

“You are cleverer than I thought, Mark, but not 
quite so clever as you think. It is quite true that I 
always meant — at least I mean hoped — to marry well ; 
but until lately — and just now — well, never mind that. 
At any rate, you can’t say I have thought about it 
definitely.” 

“No, I suppose not. That was because of me. 
That ’s why I am going away.” 

“ This moment, do you mean ? ” 

“ Oh, I shall have time to put you in your ’bus first,” 
he said. 

“ Why have you told me this so suddenly ? ” 

“Not for a moment because I hoped you would be 
upset, or would relent at the last. You need n’t think 
that. I told you now because you happened to ask me 
to meet you this afternoon. But for that, I should 
have said good-bye in a letter.” 

“ That would have been unkind.” 

“Would it? Then I ’m glad I did n’t. I don’t 
want to be unkind.” 

They walked on a little way. Ella turned to him 
suddenly ; 


72 


The Priest’s Marriage 


‘ ‘ Had you made up your mind to go the other day 
when we were talking about Annie’s wedding and 
other things, in the park ? ” 

‘ Yes ; I’d made up my mind as long ago as that, 
but I had n’t found the opportunity. The opportunity 
came this morning. Here ’s your ’bus. Don’t look 
relieved. I know you are. But hide your relief till 
I ’m gone. It had to come, you know.” 

“ Yes, I know,” she said. “ Good-bye, Mark.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

He handed her on to the ’bus and watched her reach 
the top. Poor boy, he loved her very much, and he 
did n’t know how much of his love was for the lace 
frills on the iridescent silk petticoat. These things 
appeal so very strongly to the impecunious. 

Ella did not look back. He was right. It had to 
come, but the words reproached her. 

‘ ‘ He was thinking of my little hurt and not his own 
big one,” she thought. “ Now, why could n’t a man 
like that have money ? It ’s a hateful world.” 

She said it was a hateful world all the way along 
Notting Hill Road to Bayswater, and then she said that 
Bayswater was the most hateful place in it, and got 
down at Queen’s Road to save the penny for the short 
division of the fare. She left the main road and got 
quite out of sight of the park before she turned a corner 
into her own shabby street. 

As she turned the corner, a thick-set, straight-haired 


A Parting 


73 


girl, with an ugliness that bore a grotesque family like- 
ness to her own beauty, cannoned against her, and 
then drew back awkward and shamefaced. 

“ Ella! ” she gasped, as if anxious to get her defence 
in between the fault and the reproof ; ‘ ‘ Ella, Herr 
Stettin says there ’s just a chance of my winning the 
musical scholarship if I try very hard. I was running 
home to tell you.” 

” If j^ou win it,” said Ella, “ I ’ll make up that blue- 
and-white stripy silk you like so much for you to wear 
at the examination party. Now run home as fast as 
you can and say I ’m coming, and that I hope tea is 
ready, for I ’m dreadfully tired; or, stay — tell them I ’m 
in an awful temper, and they ’d better all keep out of 
the way.” 




CHAPTER VIII 


GOOD NKWS FOR DICK 



HE ministry was still in office. Somehow it had 


1 dragged on its existence through the last two 
months ; a bye-election or two, a little diplomatic vic- 
tory, and the success of an unimportant bill had enabled 
it to do so with some small show of credit ; but every- 
one knew its days were numbered. 

When, early one afternoon, a message came summon- 
ing Dick to Lord Feltringham’s private room some two 
hours after his usual duties there were over, he had no 
doubt as to what he was to hear. The prospect of the 
loss of his appointment had been before him so long 
that he had ceased to realize that the loss might be- 
come a fact. Ever since he left college he had had an 
income with a prospect of losing it : it was difficult to 
imagine any other state of things. 

Lord Feltringham, who had been talking with two 
men who had just left, sat down as Dick entered the 
room. He turned his chair from the writing-table with 


74 


Good News for Dick 


75 


an air of relief, almost of emancipation, and signed to 
Dick to sit opposite him. 

Well, we ’re going. Archer, ’ ’ he said, in a tone which 
might have persuaded even himself that he was glad. 

“Yes?” said Dick. 

‘ ‘ Lord ! what a lot of fuss there is : as if it made any 
difference. Things will go on just the same ; that ’s 
one comfort. If we all stayed in office and changed our 
names, I wonder if anyone would know the difference ? 
I fancy I shall go to Palestine. Just think of it — it is 
six years since I was free so early in the year. You 
can come down to Feltringham for a week or so to help 
me to put things straight first, I suppose ? ’ ’ 

Dick said he could, and Feltringham continued : 

“I ’ve asked Towton to give you something — a 
Church and Constitution Defence League secretary- 
ship. I don’t know if you will care for it. It ’s seven 
hundred a year, and not too much to do. The work ’s 
not so pleasant as this, but there ’s so little of it. You 
could work at anything else too — choose your own 
career, in fact. They won’t want you till October, so 
you can take a holiday first.” 

Dick was looking so astonished that Lord Feltring- 
ham began to laugh. 

“ You did n’t suppose I was going to take up six 
years of your life — the very years a young man has the 
most chance of making his way in — and then cast you 
adrift ? ” he said. 


76 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“It is most awfully good of you,” said Dick. 

‘ ‘ There was no reason why you should do anything at 
all.” 

“ Ah, well,” said Lord Feltringham, “ I meant to 
all the while, you know. You see, I liked you. Archer. 
I dare say you did n’t notice it, but I liked you.” 

“ Oh, yes ; it made things very pleasant here for me. 
Of course I noticed ; but there was nothing to lead me 
to expect this. You could n’t very well find a secre- 
taryship for everyone you liked.” 

“ Oh, yes, I could,” said Lord Feltringham. “ You 
see, I did n’t like any of the others.” 

“ Well, thank you,” said Dick. 

Lord Feltringham looked at him curiously and hesi- 
tated : 

“ Would it have made any difference,” he asked, 
“ any difference in any way to your own affairs, I mean, 
if I had mentioned this sooner ? ’ ’ 

“ Not the least, thank you,” said Dick. 

“I’m glad of that. I should have been sorry if 
you had told me it would have made any difference. 
I should like to go to Feltringham by the 2.50 to- 
morrow. You ’ll let them know we ’re- coming ? 
Thanks. Lady Feltringham can’t get away till Fri- 
day. You are quite sure it would have made no differ- 
ence if I had told you what I intended to do earlier ? ’ ’ 

“ Quite sure.” 

‘ ‘ It would have made a difference to me at one time 


Good News for Dick 


77 


to have known how things would turn out — I was a 
third son, you know. But one grows out of that sort 
of thing — one grows out of it. I remember it would n’t 
have been the slightest use to me then if someone had 
told me one grows out of it. It ’s very sad to be young, 
Archer, after one leaves school, you know. One has 
to do without so much that one wants. One would 
need seven lives at the least to live one’s youth out thor- 
oughly. Well, I need not keep you. There ’s nothing 
to do. I believe Lady Feltringham means to ask you 
to bring her to join me on my travels after the season 
is over. But probably you have other plans ? ” 

“ No, I shall be delighted.” 

“ Then that ’s all right. I ’m very much obliged. 
It is not many young men who would care to spend a 
holiday conveying an old lady across two continents.” 

“ Anyone would enjoy taking Lady Feltringham.” 

Lord Feltringham was pleased and relieved. 

” I wanted you to say that,” he said ; “ something 
like that. On my soul. Archer, Lady Feltringham is 
the only woman I could have cared for through a life- 
time, and yet at one time it would have made a great 
difference if I had known how things were going to 
turn out.” 

They parted. Dick walked home crosswise through 
St. James’s Park. As he neared Hyde Park Corner he 
remembered he had not called on the Baileys since the 
wedding, so he turned into their street and rang the bell. 


78 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Mrs. Bailey was at home. The room seemed full of 
girls, all young and pretty. Ella Payne was among 
them, brilliantly dressed as usual. He made towards 
her instinctively. Ella always talked so much that a man 
with nothing to say felt entirely at his ease in her presence. 
Dick always had less than usual to say at the Baileys’ . 

Ella began to talk at once, and had been talking 
contentedly for several minutes before it occurred to 
her to tell Dick he was looking depressed. 

“ I have been hearing good news,” said Dick. 

“ Do you know your speeches never have any em- 
phasis?” laughed Ella. “ I don’t in the least know 
whether that ’s a protest or an explanation. Do you 
mean you are not depressed ? or has the good news 
something depressing in it ? ” 

“I’m not depressed at all. It was only an ordinary 
answer with no particular meaning. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you know the Stravils are back ? ’ ’ 

“No, are they ? ” said Dick. “ I did n’t know.” 

He had been going to tell Ella of his post in the 
Church and Constitution Defence League, and his pro- 
jected journey to Palestine, more by way of taking his 
share in the conversation than because he expected her 
to be interested in his affairs, but her information saved 
him the trouble. 

“ They came back yesterday evening,” Ella said. 
“ They are dining here to-night. I wonder how it 
will all turn out ? ” 


Good News for Dick 


79 


“ Better than most marriages, I should say,” an- 
swered Dick. ” They knew each other pretty well, 
and knew that they liked each other. I saw a little 
of Stravil before the marriage : I liked him.” 

Ella looked at Dick for a moment and then shut her 
lips tight and sat looking severe. Mrs. Bailey came 
across the room and spoke to Archer. 

” Nan and Mr. Stravil are back,” she said. ” Has 
Ella been telling you ? They are dining here to-night. 
Will you come, if you are free ? I know you very sel- 
dom are — at least not until impossible hours ; but if 
you could come it would be nice — like old times, you 
know. We shall be quite alone, of course. Annie could 
not come to a party, but I thought she would like to 
see a few old friends. Young girls always tell me that 
the coming home from a honeymoon is so dreary. ’ ’ 

“I ’ll come with pleasure,” said Dick. 

“ They are going to live in Sloane Street,” said Mrs. 
Bailey. ” The nicest part — Cadogan Gardens it is, 
really. I am glad Annie is well off now. A pretty 
girl like Annie ought always to have money.” 

Ella rose to take her leave as Mrs. Bailey spoke. 

” I will see you into a cab,” Archer said to her. ” I 
must go, too, if I am to be back here by dinner-time.” 

They left together. It was raining a little, and Ella 
had a charming wrap which needed careful adjustment. 
She illustrated Mrs. Bailey’s remark about pretty girls 
and money much more completely than Annie Stravil 


8o 


The Priest’s Marriage 


did. He remembered Annie in shabby blue serge ; it 
was impossible to imagine of Ella ill-dressed. 

They went down the street together ; Ella still 
looked severe, and Archer wondered lazily what was 
the matter. 

‘ ‘ How does Scarsdale get on ? ” he asked presently. 

“ Mr. Scarsdale is out of England. Did n’t you 
know that ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes. I met him a few days before he left. 
He said he was going to Africa. Is he there yet, and 
how does he like it ? ” 

‘ ‘ Why, how can I possibly know, Mr. Archer ? ’ ’ 
Ella asked, with some surprise. “ You don’t suppose 
we correspond ? ’ ’ 

That was exactly what Archer had supposed, natur- 
ally, and he found Ella’s dignified surprise interesting, 
but he said, politely enough : 

“ I beg your pardon. I had some sort of an idea 
that you were friends, I don’t know why.” 

“We were,” said Ella frankly; “ and you and I are 
friends, I hope ; but I don’t suppose you will expect 
me to write to you if ever you go abroad.” 

“ I should think it charming of you if you did,” 
said Dick. 

Ella smiled and looked as if she were going to say 
something pleasant, but she did n’t. She said : 

“ Here is the blue ’bus. Will you stop it ? and I will 
get on to it.” 


Good News for Dick 


8i 


“ Where does the blue ’bus go to ? ” 

“ Horrid places — Netting Hill Gate, Westboume 
Grove, Kilburn, if you stop on it long enough ; but I 
suppose you don’t know where that is ? ” 

“ I shall see you to-night, of course,” said Dick. 

“ No. I ’m sorry, but I ’m engaged. Good-bye. 
Thanks for taking care of me.” 

She got on the ’bus laughing, with a flutter of colors 
and a flash of shoe-buckles. Archer felt a little irrita- 
tion. It was so incongruous that anything so brilliant 

should go on a ’bus to Bayswater. 

6 





CHAPTER IX 

AN AMATEUR GUARDIAN 

W HEN Archer reached his rooms he found a 
note from Annie telling of her return and 
asking him to call that afternoon. He had missed it 
by going straight from the ofl&ce to Mrs. Bailey’s, and 
it was now, of course, too late for calling. He had 
heard once from Annie since her marriage. She had 
sent two lines only in answer to his news of her 
mother’s death. “ Thank you for telling me. I can’t 
write about it yet” ; and then a hurried postcript, 
“ Eustace is very kind.” That did n’t count. Just 
now it seemed strange to receive a note from “ The 
Child” on black-edged paper and with a new signa- 
ture. Things were changing too fast — Annie married; 
her mother dead. That was quite a different Annie. 
He half shrank from meeting her to-night. 

And he was changed too. He was a man with a safe 
income and good prospects. 

Annie was already in the drawing-room when he 
reached Mrs. Bailey’s. She wore black, of course ; 
82 


An Amateur Guardian 


83 


but she was looking well, and wonderfully pretty ; 
prettier than he had ever realized. She colored with 
pleasure as she held out her hand to him. 

“ I need n’t ask how you are,” he said ; “ you look 
very well, and very happy.” 

“lam; both.” 

‘ ‘ I was out when your note came. I only found it 
when I went home just now,” he said. “ I hope you 
did n’t think me rude.” 

“ Why, no ; I thought you had n’t got it,” Annie 
said, “ and so did n’t know that I was back in town.” 

“ Yes, I knew. I came straight here from the office, 
and Miss Payne told me you had returned. Is she 
coming this evening ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, no. I remember she said she was engaged.” 

“ Did she ? How nice of her ; but it was n’t true.” 
Annie began to laugh. “She was n’t asked. She 
would n’t have come if she had been. Is n’t it queer 
of her, Dick ? She won’t know me any more now, be- 
cause I ’ve married a priest.” 

“ A man who was a priest,” corrected Archer. 
“ How strange ! She did n’t say that to me.” 

“No, that ’s what was so nice of her. She said that 
she would n’t say that she thought it wrong to anyone 
but me. Of course, it would n’t matter your knowing, 
but it was nice of her to leave it to me to talk about her 
bad opinion of me or not as I liked. Ella is very loyal. 


84 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Mrs. Bailey is angry with her — I don’t see why. She has 
a right to her opinions. Everyone has opinions. Why, 
I have, and I dare say they are as silly as Ella’s. Don’t 
you think Eustace looks very well and very happy ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes,” said Dick ; ” marriage seems to agree with 
you both.” 

Stravil, who had been talking with a sort of deliber- 
ate amiability to Beatrice Bailey, seeing himself spoken 
of, came forward and stood beside his wife. He spoke 
to Archer with almost aggressive cordiality. 

“I’ve been taught to regard you as a sort of amateur 
guardian of my wife,” he said ; “ and I ’m quite ready 
to give an account of myself. She does n’t look as if 
I ’d begun to ill-treat her so far, does she ? ” 

‘ ‘ So far I must say appearances are in your favor, ’ ’ 
said Dick, falling into his humor, but a little surprised 
at it. 

“ You are to have a latch-key, or, at all events, the 
right of entry at all hours, like a factory inspector, and 
if Annie does n’t have enough frocks you are to look 
into the matter, or if I am out late, you are to inquire 
how I spent my time.” 

“ Eustace, please don’t be silly,” said Annie. 

Dick laughed, because it was the easiest thing to do. 
There was something queer about this cordiality ; but 
then the man’s training would naturally account for a 
good deal of gaucherie, and gaucherie is always at its 
worst when trying to seem cordial. 


An Amateur Guardian 


85 


‘ ‘ Seriously, I hope we shall see a good deal of you, ’ ’ 
said Stravil. 

“ This is very flattering,” said Dick. “ I should like 
to be Annie’s guardian, but, unfortunately, I ’m already 
engaged in that capacity elsewhere. I have just under- 
taken, to go to Palestine with Tady Feltringham when 
she joins her husband there.” 

“ Oh ! what a pity to go before the end of the sea- 
son,” said Beatrice Bailey. 

” How horrid,” cried Bffie, in the same breath, ” to 
leave Bondon in the middle of June and travel about 
with an old frump like that ! I thought it was only in 
books that private secretaries took care of ministers’ 
wives and things. ’ ’ 

” Why, it will be delightful,*” said Nan. Bady 
Feltringham is n’t a frump, Bffie. She ’s a sweet, 
witty old lady, and Dick is very fond of her. She 
does n’t want to be taken care of a bit, but she and 
Dick like to go about together because they amuse 
each other so well. I am glad, Dick. What a good 
time you will have ! ’ ’ 

“We are waiting for George,” said Mrs. Bailey, 
severely, and with the air of one who often waited for 
George. “ Beatrice, I do hope you will be able to 
teach George punctuality when you are married.” 

Beatrice looked a little worried. 

“ She ’ll never manage to teach him punctuality, be- 
cause she ’s always in time herself,” cried Bffie. “You 


86 


The Priest’s Marriage 


ought to manage things so that you are half an hour 
later than he is, Bee ; that is the only way to cure a 
man of being late. At least, I know one other way, 
but — ” she stopped short. 

“ Oh ! do tell us,” said Dick. 

” Well, a girl I knew used to meet a man in the 
reference library, and he was often late and she did n’t 
like it, and he was very particular, so she made it a 
rule to read books she should n’t whenever she had to 
wait for him. That made him very punctual indeed.” 

“ Was he a curate ? ” asked Stravil, innocently. 

Effie looked at him with big, innocent eyes for a mo- 
ment, and said she did n’t know. At that moment, 
Mr. Sutton and dinner were announced. Mr. Sutton 
had a pleasant, pale face, and a manner like that of a 
disappointed apostle. He made brief and credible 
apologies for being late, and Beatrice stopped looking 
anxious. 

Stravil took in Mrs. Bailey. As Dick followed with 
Annie he told her of his secretaryship. 

“ How nice of Eord Feltringham ! ” she said ; “ but 
then it was only what he ought to do, you know. ’ ’ 

” Yes ; but it ’s nice of people to do what they ought 
to do, ’ ’ said Dick. ‘ ‘ One has a right to be pleased with 
them for it.” 

” You ’ll read for the bar, I suppose ? ” 

“Yes. I fancy that Eord Feltringham had that in 
his mind.” 


An Amateur Guardian 


87 


“ And you will grow very rich and important.” 

” I hope so, and very dull and contented.” 

“ Oh, no ; not dull if you travel about with Lady 
Feltringham. Shall you be with her long ? ’ ’ 

“ Not more than a fortnight at most. Then I shall 
travel a little on my own account. I shall not be back 
in town until October.” 

‘ ‘ Then this is almost the only time I shall see you 
till then,” said Nan. “ It all seems very horrid and 
different, does n’t it ? ” 

“ If the world were to stand still, we should all be 
knocked off it by the shock, ’ ’ said Dick. 

“ Well, but it need n’t go quite so fast.” 

“ I don’t think you ’ve much to complain of, have 
you?” 

” Not much. Did you think mine a very short, un- 
grateful answer to your nice letter ? ’ ’ 

He had known of course that her mind was on her 
mother’s death, and the strangeness of coming back to 
a new home and new surroundings. He realized, too, 
how much he missed his old friend himself, so he 
said prosaically that he was quite satisfied with her 
letter. 

“ I liked yours,” said Annie. “ It was a nice letter. 
I am not going to make you talk about things now. 
Of course some day I shall want to, and I hope you 
won’t mind. I ’m glad you were there, Dick. She 
always liked having you with her so much.” 


88 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ I ’ll talk about it at any time you like,” said Dick. 
“ As I told you, it was n’t sad at all.” 

“Was it at Perugia or at Naples that we met the 
Westertons, Annie ? ” Stravil asked across the table. 

“ At Perugia,” said Annie. The Westertons were 
friends of George Sutton, and had sent messages and 
a premature wedding present to him. Annie began to 
give the messages. Archer watched her a little anx- 
iously, as a friend had a right to do. 

She was happy enough ; there was no question of it. 
He wondered if Stravil’ s awkward manners would wear 
off, or if they would remain, and become as irritating, 
in time, to the woman who knew his good points, and 
loved him for them, as they were to mere acquaintances. 
The chances were that they would wear off. It was 
only when he was striving to appear at ease that he 
failed. The man was all right ; it was his training 
that had been amiss. It is only the great lights of the 
Church or the priests of fiction who are masters of tact 
and savoir faire. Still, however little Stravil’s training 
had helped him, he might have learned more since he 
had left the Church. He did not appear to be stupid. 

Then Archer happened to see the husband’s face, as, 
without looking at his wife, he listened to what she was 
saying. The love in it was enough to make a man 
overcome far graver faults than roughness or shyness. 
Archer found himself speaking to Stravil quite 
naturally. 


An Amateur Guardian 


89 


Annie was to have a brougham, but it was not bought 
yet ; so when the evening was over she and Eustace 
went away in a hansom together. 

He leaned back with the sense of relief most hus- 
bands feel when a family party — or a party of a family 
nature — is well over. 

“It ’s been pleasant,” he said, “ and they mean 
well ; but do you know, I don’t think we will see much 
of the Baileys in future ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, but Eustace, we must. We met each other 
there. Why should we not ? ” 

“ I mean, not more than we must. I like Mrs. Bailey 
pretty well, and the eldest girl is good and dull enough, 
but I can’t stand the other. A girl who meets men 
secretly in reference libraries will get into mischief 
sooner or later, and I won’t have you mixed up in her 
pranks.” 

“Was that girl she told us about herself, do you 
think ? ” said Nan. “ How do you know ? ” 

“ I did n’t know. I guessed. I knew there was 
some flirtation with a curate. When she denied it so 
innocently, of course I knew.” 

“ But Effie means no harm, Eustace ; it ’s only non- 
sense with her.” 

“ I don’t say there is any harm in her, so far ; but it 
would worry me if you saw too much of her. My dear, 
you don’t know how precious you are. Promise me 
you will do as I say.” 


90 


The Priests Marriage 


“ Of course. I know you don’t want me to be un- 
kind or ungrateful to old friends, but I ’ll promise not 
to go and meet curates in libraries with her. That ’s 
what you mean, is n’t it? She won’t ask me to do 
that, you see.” 

Annie was laughing, and her husband laughed too. 

“Am I being a Mahometan again?” he said. 
“ Well, I can’t help it in so far as objecting to your as- 
sociating with frisky young women goes ; but you must 
admit I do my best in other ways. Did I hear that the 
immaculate friend is going abroad at once ? ” 

“ Not quite at once ; in a week or two, and part of 
the week or two he will be at Feltringham. We sha’n’t 
see much of him.” 

“I’m sorry. I meant it, you know, when I told 
him I hoped we should see him often. ’ ’ 

“ I always said you would like him when you knew 
him,” said Nan. 




CHAPTER X 

CONNUBIAI, CONFIDENCES 

A nnie STRAVIE was in her own special sitting- 
room, seated in an uncomfortable chair before 
the fire, darning her husband’s socks. 

There was not the slightest need that she should 
darn them. If they were to be mended at all, there 
were servants in the house who could have done the 
work ; but she was darning because it made her feel so 
domestic and married. 

A natural instinct had led Annie Stravil to gather 
all the relics of her girlhood into her own little boudoir. 
Her mother’s furniture had been sold, but the one or 
two trifles which had always been her special property 
were reserved. There was nothing of any value, or of 
interest to anyone but herself, and she had an idea, 
without putting it into words, that Eustace would n’t 
quite like to see how highly she prized mementos of a 
time which did not belong to him. There was a pic- 
ture or two, portraits of the actors and actresses who 
had been her first enthusiasms, the uncomfortable 
91 


92 


The Priest’s Marriage 


carved chair she sat on, which she had made at school, 
shabby books that had been her first loves, a silver 
crucifix that a friend had given her for its beauty, and 
a small cast of the Venus of Milo which she had res- 
cued from a second-hand shop in a Bayswater slum one 
day when she had been to see Ella, and was trying to 
find her way home by a short cut. 

These two last were at either corner of the mantel- 
piece, the one standing on the shelf, which was low 
and broad, the other hanging on a nail on the wall. 
Annie sat sewing between them. 

There was a knock at the door, and it was opened 
before she had even time to say “ Come in.” Her 
husband stood in the aperture. 

“I’m coming in,” he said. “ It ’s no use your say- 
ing I must n’t. I ’ve tried my very best to leave you 
one corner of the house sacred ; but it ’s no use. I ’m 
jealous of your closed door : it was getting on my 
nerves. I want to see what you have here, and what 
you do here.” 

Annie flung down her’ work laughing. 

“ I did n’t know you had any nerves,” she said. 

“ Did n’t you ? Have I been as clever as that ? I 
thought I ’d let you see them once at least. What ’s 
this?” 

He picked up her work and saw what it was. 

“You sweet, good little thing ! what are you doing 
this for ? ” 


Connubial Confidences 


93 


“ Pleasure.” 

“I ’d no idea you were so clever. I thought the 
parlor-maid did that. My dear, if I ’d had any notion 
how pretty your hand looked with a thimble on it, I ’d 
have come into this room long ago. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How do you like it, now you are here ? ’ ’ 

“Wait until I understand it. What ’s this ? Your- 
self at ten years old ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You were a nice child, even then. And this ? ” 

“ A dear old dog we had. It ’s very bad. I tried to 
paint it myself. ’ ’ 

“ You certainly don’t paint as well as you darn. 
And this ? Oh, I see — a group of prize-winners at your 
school. Are you there ? How ugly girlhood is in the 
mass ! Even you lose your good looks in a group. I 
don’t like this.” 

Apparently he liked the next portrait less. It was a 
photograph of Mrs. Fulton, and he passed it without a 
word, and reaching the hearthrug, saw the crucifix, 
and looked at it critically. 

‘ ‘ That ’s good, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ That ’s quite a fine piece 
of work, but the last thing I should have expected to 
find here. I thought you were brought up to have a 
holy horror of anything popish.” 

‘ ‘ A school friend sent it me from abroad. I liked 
it. I fancy my having it used to worry mother a 
little.” 


94 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Yes ; I gathered from my talk with her, when she 
was inquiring into my morals, you know, that my 
having given up Romanism quite made up for all my 
other failings, even for not having any other belief.” 

“ I don’t suppose mother understood that you had n’t 
any belief at all. That was n’t the sort of thing 
mother would ever have understood. You see she 
believed things in such an easy and pleasant way, she 
could n’t have understood anyone’s giving up what 
made life so comfortable.” 

“ Would n’t she have let you marry me if she had 
known ? ” 

“ I don’t know. So many good women have a curi- 
ous belief that it does n’t matter for a man.” 

He sat down beside her and spoke seriously : 

“ And you ? ” he asked. “ It would never have oc- 
curred to me to ask you, but for that, there,” — with a 
gesture to the further side of the mantelpiece — “ I 
did n’t deceive you, did I ? You knew the worst of 
me — in that respect at least ? ” 

” Oh, yes. I knew.” 

And you were not shocked ? ” 

“ No ; it did n’t seem to me to matter.” 

He looked a little astonished, but not displeased. 
She went on after a moment, speaking earnestly, 
almost enthusiastically : 

“ Very religious people believe strange things, I 
know ; but it always seemed quite impossible to me to 


Connubial Confidences 


95 


think God would be angry with anyone for what he 
can’t help. It is as if He were angry with people for 
not being strong, or not being able to sing. Would n’t 
anyone rather believe if they had the choice ? It is 
horrible not to believe. I was sorry for you, but I 
knew quite well that it was all right, that if you — if 
anyone did his best, it would be all right sooner or 
later. Did you ever hear the story of St. Christopher ? ’ ’ 

“ I dare say. I remember you said once that 
you hoped I was like him. What do you know of 
him?” 

“Just a scrap. I found it in a very Protestant book 
mother gave me on my birthday. I remember she was 
a little worried to find there was a story of a saint in it. 
St. Christopher was a very great fighter, and he said 
he would only serve the very greatest and bravest man 
on earth. So he served a wicked lord, who was the 
terror of the country. But at last this lord fell ill, and 
was dreadfully afraid to die. Christopher asked why 
he was afraid, and the great lord confessed that he 
feared the devil. ‘ If you fear the devil, the devil 
must be greater than you, ’ said Christopher, ‘ so I 
shall go and serve him.’ He went and served the 
devil for a great many years ; but at last one day the 
two were riding along a road and saw a crucifix. ‘ We 
must turn back,’ said the devil ; ‘ I can’t pass that.’ 
Christopher asked, ‘ Why not ? ’ and the devil said it 
was the sign of Christ, and that he feared it. ‘ If you 


96 


The Priest’s Marriage 


fear Christ, Christ must be greater than you ; I shall 
go and serve him,’ said Christopher. So he went to 
the convent, and they told him so many hard things 
he would have to believe that he knew he could n’t be- 
lieve, and so many tiresome things he would have 
to do gladly that he knew he could only do against his 
will, that he was sure it was quite impossible for him 
ever to serve Christ at all, so he was quite in despair, 
and sat down outside the convent grieving. Then he 
noticed that before the door of the convent there was a 
wide, deep river flowing, and it gave a great deal of 
trouble to the followers of Christ who came to the con- 
vent to worship Him. Sometimes they were carried 
away by it and drowned. So Christopher said that if 
he could n’t serve Christ, at least he could serve the 
people who did serve Him, and that he would stay 
there and carry all the people who came to worship at 
the convent across the river. He did this for years 
and years, until at last he was old. He had made him- 
self a little hut on the bank, and never by day or night 
refused to help anyone. At last, one Christmas night, 
he was awakened by someone knocking at the door, 
and getting up he found a beautiful child waiting to be 
taken across the river. He took the child on his 
shoulder and went into the river. And it seemed the 
child grew heavier and heavier, until Christopher could 
hardly carry him, and at last he asked, ‘ Why are you 
so heavy ? ’ and the child said, ‘ Because I am bearing 


Connubial Confidences 


97 


the sins of the whole world,’ and Christopher cried 
out in great joy, ‘ Am I, then, serving Christ at the 
last ? ’ and Christ said, ‘ All the while you have been 
serving My people you have been serving Me.’ I love 
that story very much. ’ ’ 

“ Why ? ” said Eustace. 

He only said the one word, but the tone quieted the 
feeling of awkwardness a reserved person always feels 
after speaking in earnest. She answered, simply and 
easily : 

“ Because it ’s the story of foolish, blundering people 
who mean well, and don’t know any better. It helped 
me very much once. I think it one of the most' beauti- 
ful stories in the world.” 

‘ ‘ It helped you ? Why ? Do you mean that there 
was a time when you did n’t believe, or thought you 
did n’t believe ? ” 

” I think,” she said, ” that there comes a time to 
most people when everything one has been taught 
breaks down, and one has to find out what one can be- 
lieve for oneself. ’ ’ 

” Do you mean,” cried her husband astonished, 
” that such a time came to you — a girl, a mere young 
girl?” 

“Yes; it came when father died. I don’t know 
why, only somehow, when I saw him dead, I seemed 
suddenly to know that I ’d never really believed in 
anything. I remember mother said her prayers that 

7 


98 


The Priest’s Marriage 


night. I could n’t — it seemed just silly and useless. 
I was very frightened and miserable and lonely, but I 
said nothing about it. That seemed the only thing to 
do. I thought that if there was no God it would be 
only selfish to disturb people who found any help in 
believing, and I must just be as good as I could by 
myself, but it was very horrible and desolate.” 

“I’m amazed,” said Stravil, staring at her. ” To 
think of this tragedy hidden behind a girl’s pink and 
white face! — it takes one’s breath away. It was n’t a 
pleasant thing for me to find out — that I ’d given up 
life for a fable. I went to the other extreme. I don’t 
care to remember it. And all the while you were facing 
this quietly within yourself. You ! — shut up in your 
little white bedroom with your mother at the door ; and 
the same hell found you there. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Girls generally have to go through it some time or 
other,” she said. 

“Were you going through it when I met you at 
dances — ^just a pretty little girl in the smartest of frocks 
— and fell in love with you ? ” 

” No, not then. It was all right with me before I 
met you.” 

” Tell me how it came right.” 

“You ’ll laugh.” 

“ I dare say. You need not mind.” 

“ Well, then. I was coming home one evening. It 
was raining. It was one of those evenings when the 


Connubial Confidences 


99 


whole world seemed soaked through and through, when 
you can’t believe it is true that you ever sat on dry 
grass and smelt thyme and heard the bees. And a great 
van came tumbling down a side street just before me, 
and suddenly the horse’s shoe struck a spark out of the 
wet, drowned road. Somehow the whole world seemed 
a little less hopelessly dark for that one spark, and I 
can’t in the least tell you how, or why, but it seemed 
to me that the world — just the natural world we all 
know of, the fire that comes out of the flint, the life 
that begins when one reed leans and touches another, 
the live flower that springs from the thousand-year-old 
seed in the hand of the mummy — all those things are 
every bit as wonderful as the story of the resurrection. 
It did n’t seem hard to believe at all. Are you laugh- 
ing ? ” 

“ No, dear, I ’m not laughing,” he said ; ” or if I 
am, it ’s not because I don’t like your story — I like it. 
I can’t accept it myself, but I don’t grudge your belief 
in it. I should say if there were a God, He would 
seem to love women best, for He makes this world so 
hard to live in and the next so easy to believe in for 
them. What was the other story you said was beauti- 
ful ? ” 

‘ ‘ The legend of the twelve crowns. It was in Rome, 
and they were persecuting the Christians. They made 
them stand naked in the snow on the frozen Tiber, and 
on the shore there were fires before the images of their 


lOO 


The Priest’s Marriage 


gods, and meat, and hot wine, and any Christian who 
would come from the ice and offer incense might eat 
and drink and warm himself and live. Twelve Chris- 
tians stood on the ice freezing to death. And one of 
the soldiers of the guard — I like to think that he must 
have been a big sunburned Briton — saw these men 
dying of cold in sight of wine and fires, and wondered 
what in the world made them do it. He thought it 
quite mad and foolish of them, and a very great pity 
since they were so brave. But presently he happened 
to raise his eyes, and saw in the darkness just above the 
martyrs twelve beautiful angels, each holding in his 
hands a golden crown ready for the soul of each man 
as he died. Then, while he watched, he saw one of 
the angels let fall the crown from his hands and turn 
away weeping, and while he wondered why, he saw 
that the courage of one of the Christians had failed, 
and that he had left the ice and stood by the fire warm- 
ing himself ; and the thought came into the soldier’s 
heart that the angel should not weep, nor one of the 
twelve crowns be wasted, so he threw aside his armor 
and his clothing and went and stood on the ice, and 
died there with the rest.” 

” And the Christian who broke faith was damned, of 
course, ’ ’ said Eustace. ‘ ‘ Is your story pointed at me ? ” 

” No,” said Nan ; “ of course not. Don’t you see, 
that is the story of love of goodness, and that ’s just 
the same thing as love of God ? ’ ’ 


Connubial Confidences 


lOI 

“ No, I don’t,” said Eustace ; ” but I ’m quite sure 
I like you to think so. Yours is a beautiful belief, my 
dear. I don’t say it ’s better than believing just what 
you have been brought up to believe, but somehow it 
seems to suit you, and be in keeping with you, and 
your quaint mixture of wisdom and childishness, and 
your pretty medley of a room. It is in keeping with 
that ” — and he made a gesture towards the crucifix — 
” which is good work, and quite in its place in a wo- 
man’s room. It does n’t explain that, though,” — and 
he turned to the Venus : ” that ’s a little out of place, 
is n’t it? I’m sure her image was on the bank. It 
was at her fire the apostate warmed himself, and you 
have her there above your hearth. My dear, my dear, 
explain.” 

He leaned against the mantelpiece, laughing and 
watching his wife. She laughed a little too as she 
answered : 

” My dear Venus ? Oh, she does n’t need any ex- 
planation. I found her by chance one day in a dirty 
street. She looked so sad and lost that I rescued her 
and brought her home in a cab. I love her very 
much.” 

” Not so much as the crucifix, I hope.” 

“It seems to me we need them both. Between them 
they express the whole world. One is the gospel of 
suffering, and the other the gospel of beauty. One 
says, ‘ Holiness is agony,’ and the other says ‘Sin is 


102 


The Priest’s Marriage 


ugly,’ and when one looks at the Venus long one 
finds that she is as sad as the Christ.” 

” And when one looks at the crucifix, one says : 

Qui viderit mulierem, etc. 

Send her downstairs to my study, my dear.” 

‘ ‘ What does the Latin mean ? ’ ’ 

” It means that Venus has n’t enough clothes on.” 

” Oh, Eustace, how horrid ! One never thinks of 
that.” 

” One does n’t, another does ; it all depends on the 
one.” 

” But, Eustace, not either of us. We are n’t either 
of us that other one. ’ ’ 

” My good child,” said Eustace, “ the one who is n’t 
that one is one in a thousand.” 

” Well, I know two who don’t think things like 
that.” 

” Yourself, and what other? The platonic friend? 
My dear, a husband can’t be quite like a platonic 
friend. I ’m afraid you must n’t expect that of us. 
By Jove ! talk of friends, here are those chattering 
Bailey girls ; I ’ll escape them if I have to hide behind 
the landing window-curtains. ’ ’ 

And Stravil made his exit just as Beatrice and Effie 
were announced. 



CHAPTER XI 

EXIT A CURATE 

B eatrice and Effie were shown into Annie’s 
room. Stravil might have felt that the energy 
of his flight was somewhat unnecessary if he had seen 
how relieved they both were to find Annie alone. 

“ I do detest a man who, because he is in love with 
one woman, shows all the others that he despises them 
for not being that one,” Efiie declared almost imme- 
diately after the engagement. “We can’t all be Annie. 
I know one or two people who would be very sorry if I 
were Annie, because then I should n’t be me, and if 
you were Annie, George Sutton would n’t love you.” 

“ George says that it is only the sensualist, loving 
only with his lower nature who, directly he is in love 
with one, takes no interest in the rest,” Beatrice had 
answered. 

“ Did he ? ” said Effie ; “ and what does it mean ? 
It sounds as if there were something improper in it, 
unless it was an excuse for all that tribe of women in 
queer hats who help him in his fads ; but, all the same, 
103 


104 


The Priests Marriage 


whatever he meant, I ’m afraid Mr. Stravil is n’t 
nearly as nice as we thought he was before he was in 
love. ’ ’ 

So to-day they were glad of Stravil’ s absence, and 
had no hesitation in letting Annie see that they were 
glad, and the three settled down before the fire for a 
good feminine gossip. 

Beatrice’s marriage had been fixed for the spring of 
the next year. 

“ They could have been married ever so long ago, 
only George has so many philanthropic schemes that 
must be taught to walk alone first, ’ ’ said Bfl&e. 

“ It ’s to be a May marriage, like yours,” Bee said. 
“ I do hope it won’t be unlucky.” 

” Mine is n’t,” said Annie. 

“ Oh, you are n’t superstitious, I know,” said Kffie ; 
“ and superstitious things don’t matter if you ’re not 
superstitious. Pins lying on the ground never brought 
me any ill-luck till I knew they would, and now they 
always do. Since Bee made up her mind to be married 
in May I ’ve made up my mind to watch her like a 
lynx all the while she is dressing for fear she puts on 
anything wrong side out. Not but what it would be 
more important to watch George, for he ’s much more 
likely to do it.” 

” You must warn his best man,” said Annie, laugh- 
ing. ” Who are to be your bridesmaids. Bee? I ’m 
sorry I can’t be one. Will BUa ? ” 


Exit a Curate 


105 

“ She ’ll be married herself by then, I expect,” said 
Efl&e. ” She is staying with the Hoxtons again.” 

” Is there really anything in that ? ” asked Annie. 

” I don’t know,” said Beatrice. ” I think she wants 
to, because she thinks it would be so wise, and can’t 
because it would be so unpleasant. We expected she 
would be engaged when she came back last spring. 
Dolly Lyndon, who stays down there with the Beau- 
champs, says the Hoxtons all want it dreadfully.” 

” She thought she could stand them, but found she 
could n’t in the spring,” said Effie, ” but now she ’s 
going to try again. Since then the second son, ’Erbert, 
— he ’s not so vulgar as ’Arry, but then he ’s not the 
eldest son, and won’t be so rich, — has been married into 
a county family, and that has given Ella courage. The 
new wife ’s a very nice girl, Dolly Lyndon says, but 
very young. They married her to ’Erbert directly she 
left school, before she had time to choose for herself. I 
dare say he was quite as nice as the singing masters and 
dancing masters she ’d been in love with at school, you 
know. Dolly says she ’s happy enough. She always 
calls her husband ‘ Charles.’ Dolly asked her why, 
one day, since his name was Herbert, and she said 
quite calmly : ‘ Well, you see I was married to him 
before I knew the family peculiarity with regard to the 
letter ‘ h ’ ; when I did, as I could n’t unmarry him, I 
thought the next best thing to do was to call him 
Charles,” 


io6 


The Priest s Marriage 


“ I don’t believe Ella will do it, really,” said Annie. 

‘ ‘ Oh, you mean she would think it wrong because 
she was so particular about — well, so particular,” and 
Effie pulled up short, almost with a snap. ‘ ‘ I suppose 
she is — about early communion and wearing violets in 
Lent, and things like that ; but then she wants money 
dreadfully. Girls who make their own clothes always 
do. They get to hate economy so, and the Hoxtons 
are dreadfully rich. Besides, the neighborhood is be- 
ginning to put up with them. Ella would have a 
pretty good time.” 

” They are received and laughed at,” said Beatrice. 
” I ’d rather be left out, myself.” 

” Oh, but there ’s generally someone received and 
laughed at in every set,” said Effie. ” One wants 
someone to laugh at. That ’s why people in history 
had court fools. If there is n’t someone who deserves 
to be laughed at, people laugh at someone who does n’t 
deserve it, and that ’s always a pity. Dolly says the 
neighborhood could n’t spare the Hoxtons ; they pro- 
vide so much fun. Last winter, at the county ball, 
Mrs. Hoxton did n’t like the crush on the stairs. 
There was a man behind her who did n’t give her 
enough room for her skirts — last year’s skirts, you 
know. She tells the story herself. ‘ ’Ere was this im- 
pudent young h’ officer on the train of my h’ ivory satin, 
spoilin’ it, and I turns round and I says, ” ’Oo ’s push- 
in’ ? ’Oo ’s pushin’ ? ” I says ; and ’e says, ” My name 


Exit a Curate 


107 


is Barnes,” as polite as you please.” ’ Two or three 
people called directly they heard that Mrs. Hoxton was 
telling that story herself.” 

“ Did you say that Ella was staying there now ? ” 
asked Annie. 

“ She was,” said Beatrice. “ Dolly left her there, 
but she said she was coming home for Christmas. I 
should think she would. People like that are always 
specially horrid at Christmas. They seem somehow to 
get so very much more like themselves.” 

“ I don’t believe that ’s the reason,” said Effie. “ I 
believe Christmas with her own people is more than an 
excuse. Ella’s own people and Mark Scarsdale are the 
only people who are really fond of her. The rest of 
us are only dazzled. ’ ’ 

“I’m fond of her,” said Annie. 

“You believe you are, to excuse yourself for being 
dazzled by her beauty. You ’re a little like a man 
sometimes,” said Effie, “ in spite of your Dresden 
China face.” 

“Have I a Dresden China face?” asked Annie 
anxiously. 

“ Well, that ’s what Mr. Stravil said to mother, 
when first he saw you. ‘ Introduce me to the Dresden 
China girl,’ and I wondered whether he ’d be disap- 
pointed when he found there was nothing Dresden 
China about you but your waist and your complexion. 
You certainly have n’t a Dresden China character.” 


io8 The Priest’s Marriage 

“ What would a Dresden China character be like ? ” 
asked Annie. 

“ Oh, all prettiness, and no sense, or strength, or 
anything to make a man uncomfortable ; only pretti- 
ness, and nothing else. The sort of thing a man loves 
very much, and calls womanly and then gets tired of. 
But he goes on calling it womanly just the same. I 
remember we were saying, ever so long ago, the night 
you were engaged, that a woman ought to be married 
for just being pretty and knowing nothing, and then 
keep her husband from tiring by showing that she has 
a character after all. Afterwards, when I saw more of 
Mr. Stravil, I began to think he was an exception, and 
that it was a pity your character was in so much stronger 
coloring than your complexion, because he would be 
disappointed when he found it out. However, it ’s all 
right now. Of course, we know Eustace has not been 
disappointed in you, but he must have been very much 
surprised when he found you were n’t Dresden China 
all through.” 

‘ ‘ I wish you were engaged, Kffie, ’ ’ said Annie. 

” So does Bee, because then I should n’t have time 
to study George Sutton and find out just what he ’s 
like. But I ’m not, and I sha’n’t be. I ’m so fond 
of enjoying myself. I shall just go on having a good 
time again and again, until at last I get tired and want 
to be loved and married like other people ; and then I 
shall turn round and find that I am passSe and in the 


Exit a Curate 


109 


shade, and can’t find anyone to love me ; and all the 
disagreeable people will insist there was never a time 
when I could ; and I shall hate all the girls who can, 
from the bottom of my heart, and turn into the ordinary 
spiteful old maid.” 

Kfiie ended rather dolefully, and sat silent for quite 
a minute, looking almost depressed. 

” She ’s given up the curate,” said Beatrice, in ex- 
planation. 

” Oh, yes: I had to,” said Effie. ” It would n’t keep 
at the same stage, you know. If things would only 
keep at the same stage life would be so much nicer. It 
was at a school treat. I pretended to mother that I 
was going to see Ella, and I went and poured out tea 
for little wretches at Putney, and we played games. 
You know the sort of games : jumping round in rings 
and singing things and getting hot. There was one of 
the games — ‘ Poor Jeannie ’s a-weepin’.’ A girl was 
put in the middle of the ring, and we all jumped round 
her singing : 

Poor Jeannie ’s a-weepin’. 

Poor Jeannie ’s a-weepin’, 

Poor Jeannie ’s a-weepin’ 

On a ’ot summer’s day. 

Oh, Jeannie, ’00 are yer weepin’ for? 

Oh, Jeannie, ’00 are yer weepin’ for? 

Oh, Jeannie, ’00 are yer weepin’ for? 

On a ’ot summer’s day? 

and the little beast said she was weeping for the curate; 


I lO 


The Priest’s Marriage 


so he had to go and stand in the middle and hold her 
hand while they sang : 

Now you ’re married we wishes yer joy : 

First a girl, and then a boy, 

Every year after a son or darter. 

And ter live ’appy ever after, 

and he looked so hot and idiotic and — that sort of thing 
so often does happen in curates’ families, you know — 
and I hated him ; and when it was his turn to be asked 
who he was weeping for, of course I knew he would n’t 
say it was me, and make me go into that detestable 
ring, but he looked so silly that I just stepped out of 
the ring and left a message with one of the teachers 
that I was going home ; and I wrote next day to say I 
did n’t think I was fitted for a clergyman’s wife.” 

‘ ‘ Had n’ t you been in earnest all along ? ’ ’ asked Nan. 

” No ; of course not,” cried Effie. ” I only wanted 
to have some fun. Is n’t it horrid that the girls who 
only want to have fun always meet the serious men, 
and the men who only want to amuse themselves 
always get hold of serious women ? Has n’t Ella 
picked out the one person who really cared for her to 
treat badly ? But that ’s worse; for I ’m sure she cares 
for him. That makes such a difference.” 

And while they were speaking Ella Payne, arranged 
gracefully in one of Mrs. Balham’s white satin chairs, 
was reading a telegram a gorgeous footman handed her 
on a silver salver. 


Exit a Curate 


1 1 1 


Come home ; I ’ve answered all the questions. 

Mas. 

“ I am so sorry, dear Mrs. Balham,” Ella said, 
sweetly. “ I shall really have to go home for Christ- 
mas after all. My people insist on it.’* 




CHAPTER XII 

A CAPITUI<ATI0N 

I T was a miserable day in January. Archer left the 
office early and began to walk slowly across the 
Green Park, with the intention of calling on Annie. 
Then he remembered that it was not four days since 
he had last called, and that he could not very well go 
again so soon. 

He was a little impatient. A year ago it would not 
have mattered to anyone if he had called on Nan and 
her mother three days in the week. He walked on, 
changing his direction, till he reached Hyde Park 
Corner. The park was so damp and depressing that 
he got out of it as quickly as he could, and found him- 
self walking aimlessly among the dull streets on the 
Bayswater side, and was reminded by the sight of a re- 
pulsive-looking confectioner’s that he would like some 
tea, and could not possibly drink what he would find 
there. He had walked a long way, and did n’t in the 
least know where he was. Suddenly he caught sight 
of a “ blue ’bus,” and remembered that Ella Payne, last 


112 


A Capitulation 


113 

time he had met her, had invited him to call, and that 
there really was nothing against the idea, since the 
“blue ’bus” suggested he must be already in her 
neighborhood. In the dull, desolate weather the 
thought of scarlet satin was pleasant. Ella was a part 
of associations which were pleasant. He had been 
seeing a good deal of her lately. He found himself in- 
quiring of a passer-by for the street she lived in and 
hearing it was close by. 

A few moments later he knocked at the door of the 
house bearing her number, and was curiously startled 
and interested to find it so mean and shabby. The in- 
congruous always had a charm for him, and Miss Payne 
and this house presented the acme of incongruity. 

Inside things were more in harmony, but still a little 
unexpected. Miss Payne was at home, in a pretty 
drawing-room, but she was sitting in the middle of a 
square of white sheeting working a sewing-machine. 

She raised her head, and then rose quickly, looking 
pleased. 

‘ ‘ How nice of you to choose such a dull day to come ! 
You have actually caught me being useful. It seemed 
such a dull day that I thought if I could not persuade 
myself I was violently interested in something I 
could n’t bear it, so I ’m sewing.” 

Her work was some confection of blue-and-white 
satin, which Archer vaguely connected in his mind 
with a pleasant evening spent somewhere. He said 


The Priest’s Marriage 


114 

the first triviality that occurred to him, and took a seat 
just outside the limits of the white square. 

‘ ‘ Shall you mind if I go on sewing for a few min- 
utes ? ” Ella said. “ I have only a little more noise to 
make, then I can put the machine away and do pretty 
work, sewing on bows and things, and they will bring 
in tea by the time I am ready to be interrupted.” 

She rose from the machine a few minutes afterwards, 
and shook out the folds of silk ; then she took a com- 
fortable chair opposite Archer, and sat down with her 
lap full of lace and ribbons. 

” This is n’t at all the way to behave when visitors 
come, is it ? ” she cried, ” and a sewing-machine is n’t 
exactly drawing-room furniture.” 

” But one sympathizes so with your motive,” said 
Archer. “ It is a day when one is driven to do some- 
thing useful to save one’s egotism, to convince oneself 
one could n’t be spared — that one is necessary to one’s 
century, you know. I assure you I felt so unnecessary in 
the Park just now that if I could have made a coat or a 
pair of boots I would have gone home and made them.” 

‘ ‘ Rather than come here ? ’ ’ 

” Of course — for the sake of being necessary.” 

‘ ‘ But you might have thought you were necessary to 
me on such an afternoon.” 

” Oh, no; the world ’s not nice enough for one to 
think anything so pleasant except in very fine 
weather.” 


A Capitulation 


115 

** Well, no,” she said. “ And, after all, the neces- 
saries of life are very dull things. I ’d rather consider 
you as a luxury. That ’s very much more interesting. 
Now, after that, don’t you think you ought to say you 
would rather come here than make the coat ? How 
horrid of you to hesitate ! After all, you could n’ t make 
it, and I could make the frock.” 

“ I don’t believe you did make it. You are only re- 
vising and amending it. I am sure I have seen those 
blue and white stripes before.” 

” How clever of you to remember ! When and 
where ? ’ ’ 

“ At a party. No, at the opera. You were with 
someone in a box. I forget who it was, but I knew 
her. She allowed me to stay in your box through an 
act, and you talked — which was very wrong of you — 
but you had that frock on and blue shoes. ’ ’ 

She blushed a little, a very little. Blushing becom- 
ingly, just to the right extent and at the right moment, 
was one of her special gifts. 

“ I hope you thought I looked nice.” 

“ I did. I was thinking so again just now. It is a 
pity to spoil such a nice frock even for the sake of a 
little excitement on a dull day.” 

” Spoiling it — what do you mean ? ” 

“ Only that I understand and sympathize with your 
mood. Your revising and amending mean pretty much 
what the same terms mean in the House. You wanted 


ii6 The Priest’s Marriage 

something to tear to bits from sheer restlessness. I saw 
the frock when you held it up. You can’t ever wear 
it again. It is quite half a yard too short for you.” 

Ella laughed and finished sewing on the last bow. 

“ Well, at all events, I ’ve had my relaxation,” she 
said, and fiung the finished garment behind her on to 
a sofa. ‘ ‘ And I hear sounds of tea, so presently we 
shall both feel happier.” 

A big curtain hung across the wall where the folding 
doors leading to the back drawing-room invariably are 
in inferior houses. Through the doors, and even 
through the folds of the curtain, came a murmur of 
voices and a rattle of cups. Presently the door into 
the hall opened and an ungainly child with large ears 
entered, bearing a tea-tray. She looked about thirteen, 
and awkward for her age, but the tea equipage she 
carried was dainty and inviting. She set the tray 
down, brought up a little table to Ella’s chair, and 
arranged her tea-things on it with careful clumsiness. 

Ella thanked her curtly. The child bent towards 
her chair and whispered, “Is it finished?” Ella 
nodded, and the child creaked out of the room. 

The two had tea tite-h-tHe. Archer knew that Mrs. 
Payne never left her room, and that her younger 
daughters were still in the nursery ; but Ella was 
always at her best Ute-h-tHe. It was very pleasant 
and warm and quiet in the little drawing-room. The 
murmur and clatter behind the doors, made faint by 


A Capitulation 


117 

the heavy curtains, was no interruption. After tea, 
when the creaking child had removed the tray, Ella let 
Archer smoke, and begged him not to think of going 
until it was time for both of them to consider dinner. 
She was dining at Eady Mary Caine’s. Was he going ? 

He was n’t. He had been invited, but was engaged 
exactly three doors off, and they began to suggest ab- 
surd arrangements for sending in word to each other 
what the respective dinners were like, and interchang- 
ing entries to suit each other’s tastes. 

They began to feel so friendly that, as Archer lit a 
fresh cigarette, he found himself wishing that Ella 
smoked too. Then he remembered her evening gowns. 
Women who make their appeal to men entirely through 
the senses rarely smoke. There is too much camaraderie 
in the practice for them. 

Ella appealed very strongly to the senses : not in any 
coarse way, but she inspired a sensation of ease and 
prosperity and agreeable luxury. Everything about 
her was dainty and in keeping. Her thimble, he re- 
membered — one of the tools she had used in destroying 
a silk frock to ward off depression — had a little row of 
blue turquoises round it ; and he had noticed, too, a 
little band of shiny pink leather which she wore at the 
end of her first finger lest her work should leave the 
slightest roughness on the exquisitely kept nail. She 
seemed a girl born for an easy, luxurious life. She 
would be so thoroughly at home in it. 


The Priest’s Marriage 


1 18 

Nothing she said was of the slightest importance, but 
everything she said was pleasant. Archer had a charm- 
ing sense of being made love to all that dull afternoon. 
Not seriously — that was the charm of it — and not vul- 
garly. It all meant nothing, but it was pleasant. He 
warned Ella that she would have to tell him when the 
time came for him to go, for he should stay until she 
did, and Ella smiled without speaking. 

Suddenly — with hysterical suddenness, indeed — the 
door into the hall was flung open, and a girl a little 
older, a little plainer, and a little more ungainly than 
the one who had brought the tea flung herself into the 
room. Ella started and rose, stretching her hand to- 
wards the blue-and-white frock, but before she had 
time to speak the child had dashed across the interven- 
ing space, seized the garment, and flung it across the 
room with a movement that was not awkward because 
it was tragic. Her plain face, as she turned again to 
Ella, was almost grand with the intense tragedy that 
only childhood knows. 

“ It ’s no use! ” she said. “ I shall never wear it! 
I ’ve failed! I ’m as useless as I am ugly, and I wish 
I were dead and no more anxiety to you. If I had n’t 
told you I was sure to win, p’r’aps you ’d have mar- 
ried ’Arry after all ; but I encotiraged you not to, and 
now, instead of that ;^6o scholarship, everything is 
just as bad as it was before.” 

“You have lost the scholarship ? ” Ella seemed to 


A Capitulation 


119 

be grasping at the meaning of the other’s incoherent 
words. “ lyost it, after all? But you said you had 
answered all the questions, and none of the others had. ’ ’ 
“ Yes ; I answered them all, but three of my answers 
were wrong, and a Jew fishmonger girl answered all but 
two, and her answers were right, and when I played 

my sonata ’ ’ 

“You broke down ? ” 

“ No! ’’ The child’s voice was really terrible in its 
self-condemnation and despair. “ No, I played it all 
through ; but it seemed I ’d been practising mistakes 
all the holidays, and never found them out. ’ ’ 

Archer, at the interruption, had risen and drawn 
back a little. KHa seemed to have forgotten him. 
Her face was almost as white as the child’s, only she 
looked helpless rather than tragic. Then she slowly 
began to smile, to smile with a certain amount of cheer- 
fulness and a good deal of kindness. 

‘ ‘ Poor Mab ! I’m sorry ; but you worked very hard, 
and you did your best. I ’m not going to scold you, 
and I won’t let anyone else.” 

The child looked at her. The blank tragedy left her 
plain white face, and it grew almost beautiful in the 
glow of adoring admiration that suffused it. Then she 
flung two heavy, square-elbowed arms round her beauti- 
ful sister’s neck and kissed her furiously. 

“ Mab, Mab, there ’s someone here!” gasped Ella, 
and the child released her, glared for a moment at 


120 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Archer, gave an ejaculatory “ Oh! ” that was probably 
meant as an apology, and bolted from the room. 

Ella shook her skirts into place, and, by a visible 
efiort retaining so much of the smile on her lips as was 
cheerful, turned to Archer and began to speak lightly. 
Possibly she had never seen so much kindliness nor so 
much respect on any man’s face before. The light 
speech stopped short. She dropped into a chair and 
hid her face in her hands, sobbing. 

‘ ‘ Please go, Mr. Archer. This is the end of our after- 
noon. I wish you ’d gone five minutes ago, when your 
visit was still pleasant. I don’t want you to pity me.” 

“ I don’t,” he said. “I’m sorry something seems 
to be the matter, but I admire you more than I can say. 
I am going because I ’m in the way ; but if I thought 
I could help you in the least, I would stay.” 

“Oh — ” She flung out her hands in that last 
effort of self-control which seeks something to clutch 
at. Archer was offering his hand in farewell. Next 
moment he was holding both of hers in it, as he bent 
over her begging her not to cry. 

“You heard — ” she sobbed; “ you heard — we are all 
so wretchedly poor, and they are all so ugly and stupid. 
What is to become of them ? You heard what she said. 
It was true. I thought if I put a bold face on things 
and went about well dressed, I might marry well and 
help us all that way ; and— yes, I did mean to marry a 
horrid rich man, but I could n’t quite bring myself to 


A Capitulation 


I2I 


do it ; and when that poor little wretch said she was 
sure of the scholarship — a year and the rest of her 
education — I thought prospects were brightening a 
little. So I came home. And now did you hear what 
she said ? There is no chance of her ever being a 
musician. She played worse instead of better with 
practice, and there are four others as ugly and stupid 
as she is, poor thing.” 

Her head had been resting against the back of the 
chair with the face turned away. She raised it as she 
ended. She had not been crying long enough for tears 
to be unbecoming. On the contrary, she looked ex- 
tremely beautiful, and just pathetic enough. 

“ And I ’ve only some eight hundred a year at 
most,” said Archer. 

She rose, leaving her hands in his and looking 
straight at him for a moment incredulously. Then 
slowly relief and pleasure, and last of all a curiously 
piquant tenderness, rose into her face. 

“ Bight hundred a year — and you,” she said. “ I 
think I should be content with that, after all. Besides, 
you ’ll make much more some day.” 

Then she suddenly let her head fall on his shoulder 
and cried there quietly. It seemed quite natural. He 
stroked her hair and soothed her as well as he could. 
When she lifted her face again, she had her hand over 
her eyes. 

“ Don’t look at me. I must be very ugly, but I ’m 


122 


The Priest s Marriage 


very happy. Eight hundred a year is n’t much ; not 
nearly as much as I wanted ; but you, a man like you 
— that ’s very much. I ’m going to be different, and 
deserve it.” 

” Don’t be ‘ different,’ my dear. You ’ll do very 
nicely as you are. ’ ’ 

They both began to laugh, and presently there was 
a crash and a howl behind the closed doors. Next 
moment they were flung open, the curtains thrust 
aside, and an excited child appeared in the aperture, 
screaming : 

” Ella, Ella! Joan was worrying Mab because she ’s 
lost the scholarship, and Mab was trying to get away, 
and knocked over baby’s chair, and — oh — ” glaring 
with round eyes at Archer, “ oh, I thought he ’d 
gone ! ’ ’ 

“No, he ’s still here,” said Archer, ” and has 
acquired some sort of a right to pick up the baby. 
Here, youngster, let ’s see if you are hurt.” 

He had reached the technical ‘ ‘ baby ” as he finished 
speaking. She was a large child, three years old at 
least, and was not hurt at all. She was crying from 
sheer fright, but, finding herself touched and spoken to 
by a stranger, was too frightened to cry. Ella soon 
restored order, and then dismissed Archer graciously, 
and they agreed to go to their respective dinner parties 
together. He was to call for her. 

When he called, she came out into the narrow hall 


A Capitulation 


123 


looking like a princess. Mab was beside her, composed 
and cheerful now, but plainer than ever in the dainty 
blue-and-white frock. 

“ Shall you mind if we drop Mab on our way ? ” she 
said. “We thought she might just as well go to the 
school party and see if she can’t enjoy herself.” 

“ I shall enjoy myself now,” said the child solemnly. 

Klla, too, seemed in the mood to enjoy herself. There 
was a repose in her look and bearing that was quite a 
new charm. 

They reminded each other about their nonsense of 
interchanging messages, and wished the idea were 
practicable. 

“ Or we might have an interchange of guests,” sug- 
gested Klla. ‘ ‘ I might send the man deputed to take 
me down across to your party in exchange for you. 
The girl you have to take in would be glad of the 
change. Girls always know by instinct when a man is 
just engaged. He ’s so uninterested in them, and it 
would be very nice for us.” 

Klla looked very handsome and graceful as she swept 
into the light of Kady Mary Caine’s hall. There was a 
softened, mystified look in her eyes which the man de- 
puted to take her in to dinner found very attractive. 
It was the result of a curious sort of wonder deep down 
in Klla’s heart, which she resolutely refused to put 
into words. If she had done so, the words would have 
been something like this : 


124 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ What sort of a man is this who, after I ’d been 
trying my best to fascinate him all the afternoon, sur- 
rendered just at the very moment when that beastly 
exhibition of our family squalor made me give up in 
despair ? ’ ’ 




CHAPTER XIII 


EFFIEJ’S PHILOSOPHY 



NNIE came into her room early in the afternoon. 


/v She had been shopping and was a little fagged. 
Eooking round at the clock, considering whether she 
would allow herself tea so early, she noticed a big bowl 
of lilies at the right-hand corner of the mantelpiece. 
They had not been there when she went out. 

A maid entered with the parcels she had brought 
home with her, and Nan abandoned herself to the de- 
licious occupation of examining her purchases and 
making quite sure they were as pretty as she had 
thought them. 

But she remembered the lilies, and asked about 
them. 

“Who brought those flowers ? No, not the chrysan- 
themums — those lilies on the mantelpiece, under the 
crucifix ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes, I see them, ma’am.” 

The housemaid was of a stern, elderly sort, and she 
glared disapproval at the lilies. 


The Priest’s Marriage 


1 26 

“ Of course you see them. I asked who put them 
there,” said Annie, sharply. 

” The master, ma’am. He came in here just after 
you went out.” 

Annie remembered. Kustace had been a little 
gloomy and distrait at luncheon-time, and had left her 
impatiently, although he was not coming back to din- 
ner. An old college friend had turned up in Tondon, 
so he said, and Eustace had wanted to spend a little 
time with him. He had been quite impatient and fret- 
ful about going, and she had been a little cross with 
him, too, for his impatience about nothing. Of course 
she had n’t said a word against his seeing his friends. 
He sometimes seemed to take it for granted she would 
be exacting and unreasonable, and then to adopt the 
same tone with her as if she had really been so, and 
this was a little trying. But the^flowers were his peace 
offering. It was very sweet of him to bring them. 
She touched the satiny leaves caressingly and then 
came back to her purchases. 

She had just looked at them all twice over, and de- 
cided that she was more than satisfied, when Beatrice 
and Kffie arrived. 

The first ten minutes of their visit was spent in dis- 
cussing what Nan had bought, and what the3^ had 
bought the day before themselves. Then Efifie began 
to talk of Eady Mary Caine’s dinner of the night be- 
fore. Eady Mary Caine was not a very amusing person 


Effie’s Philosophy 127 

in herself, but she was interesting as a new acquaint- 
ance and the wife of an old one. 

“ Klla was there,” Beatrice said, “ looking prettier 
than I ’ve ever seen her. She had a black gown, with 
the shoulders and sleeves of chiffon. ’ ’ 

“ And it looked as if it was coming right off,” said 
Bffie. “ It looked as if there was nothing but one 
thickness of fine chiffon to keep it where it should be. 
I don’t know how she does it. If I wore frocks like 
that I should look vulgar, and she only looks chic. 
It ’s a great gift ; only nice people never have it.” 

“ Nice people are so seldom chic,'' said Beatrice. 
“Ella is nice,” said Nan, loyally. “She ’s silly 
about Eustace, but she ’s nice all the same.” 

“ Bee, we must tell her,” cried Nell. “ We were n’t 
going to. Nan, but I can’t keep it in. Ella is engaged 
to Mr. Archer ! Would you ever have expected it ? ” 
“ No, I would not,” said Annie, a little blankly. 

‘ ‘ But I don’t know why not. Are you sure it ’s true ? ’ ’ 
“ Quite sure ; it happened yesterday afternoon.” 

“ Did Ella tell you ? ” 

“ No — not a single word. She had a queer, sur- 
prised look when she first came into the drawing-room, 
and I wondered what had happened ; but I would never 
have guessed that, and she did n’t say a word. I think 
it was horrid of her, but just like her. It happened in 
the afternoon. Her sisters knew all about it, and they 
told Dolly’s sister at the school party. Dolly says 


128 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Klla’s sisters are all horrid, lumpy girls, not a bit like 
her. We met her this morning in Marshall and Snell- 
grove’s — Dolly, I mean.” 

“They are step-sisters; that ’s why,” said Nan. 
“ She ’s very good to them, and they worship her.” 

“ Why, that ’s what Dolly says,” admitted Effie. 

‘ ‘ It seems one of the Payne children had failed in some 
exam, or other, and when she was being chaffed about 
it began to put on frills about her sister’s engagement. 
Dolly said she did it very neatly, and quite crushed the 
girl who was being disagreeable about the exam. Then 
Dolly’s sister coaxed her for details, and got them. It 
seems this Payne girl blundered into the middle of the 
engagement, and then fled into the back drawing-room, 
and some of them began to fight, or fall over, or some- 
thing, and then one of them flung open the folding 
doors and introduced Mr. Archer to all his relations at 
one fell swoop, and even that did n’t frighten him 
away. He must be tremendously fond of her.” 

“ A man is a poor sort of lover if he won’t put up 
with a few tiresome relations,” said Beatrice, emphati- 
cally. 

‘ ‘ George Sutton detests me — if you mean that, ’ ’ said 
Efiie cheerfully, “ and I make up for it by detesting 
him ; but we shall both stop when you are married. I 
think, from Dolly’s account, that Ella’s sisters will be 
much more trying to a man like Dick Archer than I 
am to George.” 


Effie’s Philosophy 


1 29 

“ I can understand the engagement much better if 
Dick did see Ella among her sisters,” -said Nan. 
” She ’s nicest then. One is surprised to find how 
kind and unselfish she is.” 

” Then I call it a great shame! ” cried Kffie. “ It ’s 
nothing but the force of contrast, and quite horrid and 
unfair. Because a hard, selfish cat, like Ella, has one 
good point, a nice man like Dick Archer is to fall in 
love with her for it. Why, you and Beatrice go on 
being good and unselfish all the time, and nobody is so 
astonished that they fall in love with you.” 

** That ’s rather a strange thing to say to either of 
us in the circumstances, is n’t it ? ” said Beatrice. 

“ As for your engagement,” cried Effie, “it ’s ab- 
surd to quote anything George does as if it proved any- 
thing. If he does a thing, that goes to prove that no one 
else will. He ’d think he was n’t a real socialist if he 
did the same things that other people do ; and as for 
Nan, you know quite well that we all agreed Mr. 
Stravil did n’t love her because she was good, but be- 
cause she was pretty.” 

“ Is that true, EflSe ? ” Nan asked, with a curious 
anxiety in her face. “ What made you think that, I 
wonder ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, because he ’s that sort of a man,” said Effie. 
“ Mr. Archer is quite different. I can quite believe 
that he fell in love with Ella because he caught a 
glimpse of a little kindness among a mass of selfishness; 


130 


The Priest’s Marriage 


but be knew you — a good, sweet thing like you, for 
years and years, and never fell in love with j^ou.” 

Beatrice said “ Effie,” in a tone of remonstrance. 
There is something damping to the spirits, even of the 
least vain woman, in being told flatly that any man is 
not, and has not been, in love with her, although the 
statement is true, and although she has no desire that 
it should not be true. Perhaps Annie looked a little 
startled. 

Effie said, “ Oh, well, you know,” in a tone of 
apology. 

“It’s all right, ’ ’ said N an, beginning to laugh. ‘ ‘ He 
never did — not for one moment; but that does n’t prove 
what you say. It only proves that, good or bad, I 
was n’t the sort of girl that he could fall in love with, 
and his engagement to Ella proves that she is, and 
that ’s all quite pleasant and comfortable.” 

“ But I ’m disappointed,” said Effie. “ I thought 
Mr. Archer would just stay your friend all his life, and 
never marry anyone else, for your sake. ’ ’ 

“ People don’t do these things,” said Nan, looking 
as matronly as she could : “ not in real life.” 

“ Well, I suppose not,” said Effie ; “ but one likes 
to think that they do ; and, after all, they do sometimes 
— dull, untidy men who don’t go to dinner parties — but 
not smart men like Dick Archer. Somehow, one never 
expects fidelity from a man who makes epigrams.” 

“ Does Dick make epigrams ? ” said Annie. 


Effie’s Philosophy 


131 

“ I don’t know,” answered Kffie ; “ because I ’m 
never quite sure when a thing is only a silly, vulgar 
pun and when it ’s an epigram ; but his clothes always 
fit so well, and he is always so beautifully shaved that 
it comes to the same thing. I wonder when they will 
be married ? ’ ’ 

“ I suppose Mr. Archer can marry quite at once,” 
said Beatrice, a little dejectedly. 

“ Yes, as he is n’t a socialist,” suggested Effie. 

” What an aggravating girl you are ! ” said Annie. 

” Oh, I don’t mind,” protested Beatrice cheerfully. 
‘ ‘ Of course it is aggravating for Effie and mother that 
I might have a brougham when I ’m married if George 
was n’t so thoroughly convinced that the lower orders 
are his brothers, I used to like him for thinking so 
before I was engaged to him. ’ ’ 

” And now she only likes him in spite of it,” said 
Effie ; “ and she ’s beginning to have quite a wifely 
hatred of her husband’s relations.” 

“ I think that ’s an epigram,” said Nan. 

“ Oh, well — about one’s brother-in-law,” apologized 
Effie. 

” Ask Mr. Sutton to call here,” suggested Annie to 
Beatrice. ” I ’d like to know him better. Make him 
call here with you, and then I ’ll give a dinner. It ’s 
so nice to give dinners of your own. ’ ’ 

“ He dines very much like anyone else, you know,” 
said Effie. “ The butler is still his brother, only they 


132 


The Priest’s Marriage 


are not on speaking terms at meal-times because the 
butler wears a white tie.” 

“ Does n’t Mr. Sutton ? ” 

“ Sometimes, but that ’s different. With him it is 
claim to a social dignity that he is sure to contradict 
half a dozen times during dinner ; but the butler’s tie 
is a badge of servitude, and he does n’t contradict it. 
How awkward it would be if he did ! After all, it ’s 
better to have your visitor a socialist than your butler. 
It ’s less noticeable.” 

“I ’ll ask George to call with me one day,” said 
Beatrice, rising to go, and ignoring her sister’s criti- 
cisms with the calm of habit. “You will like him.” 

“ He ’s just the sort of intractable person you can’t 
help but like till he gets engaged to your sister, and 
keeps her waiting while he runs about after his grubby 
brothers, ’’said Effie. “ He worships her, you know ; 
but the more he worships her the more he thinks he 
ought to sacrifice the pleasure of her society to the 
claims of people who make him feel a little ill.” 

“ Efl&e, we must go,” Beatrice said, and Effie an- 
swered, “ Oh, yes, we must. Mother has some people 
coming, and we promised to be back by five, and it ’s 
past that now.” 

“ You ’ll tell Ella that you told me, and that I was 
pleased?” said Nan, as she followed the girls to the 
landing. 

“ Oh, yes— that is, when she tells us properly. At 


Effie’s Philosophy 


133 


least, not at the time she tells us. We must allow an 
interval long enough to be supposed to have told you 
in. That little sneak, Dolly’s sister, swore to the 
Payne child she would n’t get her into trouble by 
telling. It seems she only spoke in a burst of family 
pride. Little wretches ! It would serve them both right 
to be told of, and sent to bed for chattering ; but it 
would be a little ungrateful of us to be the Deus ex — I 
forget — the thing that brought it about, you know.” 

Nan went back to the fire, and sat down with her 
hands on her lap. The room was fragrant with her 
husband’s lilies. She heard the hall door opened, and 
wondered if Eustace had come back after all. Next 
moment she knew the step on the stair was Dick’s. 
He also had found his way some time since to this 
room. For the first time within her memory she was 
not quite pleased to see Dick. He had broken some- 
thing pretty, and she was going to be a little cross 
about it. 




CHAPTER XIV 

COMRADES 

I T was rather hard to remember to be cross with Dick 
when one saw him, he was such a pleasant person 
to look at, so clean and well groomed, so quietly un- 
conscious of having given offence. 

“ How nice of you to be at home and alone,” said 
Dick ; ‘ ‘ you so seldom are. ’ ’ 

“ Ring,” said Annie, “ and they will bring some tea. 
Is it freezing outside ? ” 

“ Worse ; it ’s snowing. When Eondon is perfect we 
shall have private entrances to a well- ventilated under- 
ground railway from every house over a certain rental, 
so that one need never go into the streets at all in this 
weather. ’ ’ 

“ Why does n’t someone write a series of articles, 
called ‘ When London is Perfect’ ? ” suggested Nan. 
“ It sounds like the sort of thing they would print in 
Pall Malir 

“ I will,” said Dick, “ wEen I am called to the bar. 
134 . 


Comrades 


135 


One is called, I believe, chiefly that one may write 
newspaper articles. ’ ’ 

Annie began to pour out the tea which the servant 
had brought. Dick waited till she had finished, and 
then said: 

‘ ‘ I have come to tell you some news. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, I know it,” said Annie. 

” How in the world ” 

” The Baileys have just this moment left me.” 

” They have an agreeable habit of knowing things,” 
said Dick, with a little irritation ; ” but I don’t see how 
they knew this.” 

“ Not from Ella,” Annie said promptly. “ But Ella 
has younger sisters, you know, and somebody’s sister 
that the Baileys know goes to the same school as they 
do.” 

“ Oh, is that the explanation ? ” said Dick. ” Well, 
that ’s natural enough. You have always been fond 
of Ella, so I may take it that you are pleased, may I 
not?” 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ said Annie, emphatically. “I’m not pleased 
in the least. I think it ’s horrid.” 

“ Why ? ” said Dick. 

“ Because I thought we were to go on being friends 
all our lives.” 

“ Why, so we are, are n’t we ? ” said Dick. “ But 
there was a little girl some year or so ago who did n’t 
find friendship quite enough to satisfy her.” 


136 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ That was different,” said Nan. ” I would have 
gone on being quite satisfied with friendship all my life 
if Eustace had n’t come and made me be in love and 
want to be married. I don’t suppose Ella did that with 
you.” 

“No,” said Dick. 

” I think friendship is a horrid unsatisfactory sort of 
thing, ’ ’ said Annie. ‘ ‘ It makes people selfish. I know 
all the time that I am being abominably selfish. I ’m 
just as much ashamed of myself as I ought to be ; but 
you see you came so soon after I had heard the news. 
The girls had j ust left. I wonder you did not meet 
them on the doorstep.” 

” I did,” said Dick ; ” but I did n’t gather from them 
that they were at all interested in my affairs.” 

‘ ‘ Then of course you will understand that I had been 
pretending to them to feel just as I ought to feel, and 
when you came I was having a rest. In a little while 
I ’d have been ready to say all the right things to you, 
but j ust at that moment I was next door to crying be- 
cause I have lost my friend. ’ ’ 

“But you married,” said Dick. 

“ My marriage made no difference,” said Annie ; 
“ but yours will.” 

“ Why should it ? ” 

“ It should n’t — but it will.” 

“Why?” 

“ I don’t know why, but it will. Effie could explain. 


Comrades 


137 


She always finds reasons for things. Well, one reason 
is that Ella won’t know me now.” 

“ Not know you ? Oh, yes. I remember, you told 
me so,” and he laughed a little. ” She ’s shocked 
because you married a priest.” 

” A man who was a priest,” said Annie, sharply. 
“You set me right about that once. Don’t say it the 
other way again. I use n’t to care, but I do now. 
Well, Ella cares about that very much. That ’s one 
thing that ’s bound to separate us. You can’t be my 
friend if Ella is n’t.” 

“ But that ’s quite nonsense, ” said Dick. “ Ella has 
more sense than to keep up such a foolish quarrel. 
You and she will be great friends.” 

“ As you and Eustace are ? ” said Nan. 

Dick did not answer. It had never occurred to him 
to consider the possibility of a close friendship with 
Stravil. Nan was watching him, and laughed a 
little. 

‘ ‘ There, you see ! Being engaged has made you 
quite like an ordinary man, not like a friend at all. 
You think nothing between women matters at all, and 
the least thing between men is important.” 

‘ * The only things that really matter, ’ ’ said Dick, 
“ are the things between men and women.” 

“ That is to say, between you and Ella and Eustace 
and me, I suppose. ” 

“ I did n’t quite mean that. I meant between you 


138 The Priests Marriage 

and me too. I never supposed this would even irritate 
you.” 

” Well, I ’ve owned that it is very wrong of me to 
be cross,” said Nan. ” I would n’t have let you see 
that I was if I had had half an hour to grumble in by 
myself. I do wish you had n’t come so soon. I have 
let you see the very worst of my selfishness. ’ ’ 

“You have,” said Dick ; “ but I ’m not very much 
shocked. I ’ll own, if you like, that I was just as un- 
reasonable when I first heard of your engagement ; but 
you would n’t have given up Eustace to oblige a friend, 
would you ? ” 

“ Oh! ” Annie looked quite startled. “ Oh, you 
did n’t think I meant anything so silly as that, did 
you ? Why, of course, I would n’t have said what I 
did if I had n’t been quite sure it would n’t make the 
slightest difference. Why, even if you were the sort 
of person to do such a stupid thing, I should n’t want 
you to give up a great happiness to save me from a 
little disappointment. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Such a very trifling disappointment, ’ ’ Dick said, 
and then they sat silent a moment or two. 

She was very much ashamed of herself, and, coming 
round behind his chair, laid an apologetic hand on the 
edge of it. 

“ Of course it was mean of me. I sometimes think 
if men knew how mean women are in their hearts, they 
would n’t be able to love us at all, not even the very 


Comrades 


139 


prettiest of us ; but it won’t be fair, Dick, to think me 
quite as horrid as the things I ’ve been saying. 
There ’s a difference, is n’t there, between things one 
really wants to do and the things one can’t help think- 
ing ? ” 

‘ ‘ All the difference between being tempted and being 
a blackguard,” said Ij)ick. 

She was a little astonished at the answer, and the 
tone of it. She moved about the room restlessly for a 
silent moment or two, and then stirred the fire and 
went back to her place. 

“ Well, then, if we stop being friends I shall be able 
to think it is only because a married man can’t be a 
friend,” she said ; ” not because you don’t care about 
it.” 

“We shall never stop being friends.” 

“ Is that a promise ? ” she asked. 

“ No, it ’s not a thing to make promises about ; it ’s 
one of the facts of life. Give me a kind message for 
Ella.” 

“ I sent one by Beatrice, and if she asks me to the 
wedding I shall come, although she would n’t come to 
mine. How beautiful she will look in her wedding 
dress. ’ ’ 

“ She always looks beautiful.” 

“ Always,” said Annie ; “ but still, it would never 
have occurred to me that you and Ella might like each 
other.” 


140 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Such very unlikely people like each other.” 

“ But it was n’t unlikely when one thinks. I could 
tell you lots of nice things about Ella, only you would 
like it better if I leave you to find them out for your, 
self. She ’s very honorable, for one thing.” 

” That ’s pleasant ; but how do you know it ? ” 

” Oh, from something I ’ve just this moment remem- 
bered her asking me about — one day when she ’d seen 
us in the park ; something silly; but it was nice of her 
to want to be sure of it all the same, and, of course ” — 
Nan seemed to be remembering the incident in detail 
— ” I ought not to have been surprised at this at all. 
I ought to have expected it. ” 

“ Oh, you are beginning to feel in the state to say 
the nice things you think you ought to say.” 

” No, these are true things.” 

A clock struck, and Nan started a little. 

“ That means dinner presently. Stay and dine, 
Dick. Eustace is away, but there will be some dinner. 
They began by giving me stupid, dull dinners when 
I was alone, but I promptly made a fuss, and they 
reformed. I don’t have as much as if Eustace were 
here, but I have quite as nice things. Do stay.” 

“ I can’t. I ’m going to Westbourne Square this 
evening.” 

” Of course, I forgot. You will go there nearly 
every evening now, I suppose. Give her my con- 
gratulations. You ’ll have to make haste and be a 


Comrades 


141 

judge, Dick. Ella will look splendid as a judge’s wife. 
Dick, how very young you look to be engaged ! ’ ’ 

She looked equally young to be married, as she smiled 
her good-bye, and stood watching her friend go, but 
her face paled a little when she was left alone. 

“ It would have come all the same if I had n’t been 
married,” she said ; “ and what would I have done 
then ? What in the world would I have done then ? ” 

Dick dined at a restaurant, and then went on to 
Westbourne Square. Ella had two of the children 
with her in the drawing-room, but they scuttled off at 
his appearance. She was looking wonderfully pretty, 
and, as usual, had a good deal to say. Presently Dick 
had an opportunity of giving Annie’s message. 

“ I was calling on Mrs. Stravil this afternoon,” he 
said. “ She said very pleasant things, and asked me to 
bring your share of them to you. She says I must 
make haste to be a judge, because you would look the 
part of a judge’s wife so well. I think she ’s right as 
to fitness for the part, but I ’m afraid there ’s not much 
chance of your being called upon to fill it.” 

‘ ‘ How did she know about us ? ” asked Ella. ‘ ‘ I 
did n’t want to announce the engagement yet. Did 
you tell her ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The children did the announcing ; some of their 
schoolfellows told the Miss Baileys.” 

“ Then it might as well be in the first column of the 
Times^"' said Ella. “ Tittle gossiping brutes ! Don’t 


142 


The Priest’s Marriage 


look shocked, Dick. I mean the children, and that ’s 
what they are. You must n’t think because you sur- 
prised us in a moment of emotion yesterday that they 
are nice children, because they are n’t. However, you 
need n’t mind that ; you won’t have much to do with 
them. You saw the worst of us in one tableau yester- 
day afternoon, but it won’t ever be necessary for you to 
see as much again. You ’ll let me keep an eye on 
them and do what I can still, but you need not. Well, 
go on, Dick. You went to pay an ordinary call, and 
found Nan knew all about us.” 

” No, I had called to tell her.” 

” I almost wish you had n’t gone so soon,” said Ella. 

‘ ‘ It looked a little asif you thought she would dislike it. ” 

‘ ‘ What nonsense ! ’ ’ said Dick. ‘ ‘ She is very fond 
of you. You will go and see her, will you not ? If 
there is any coldness between you, it is not of her 
making.” 

“Poor Nan!” Ella looked very serious indeed. 
“I’m fond of her, Dick, and very sorry for her, but I 
can’t go and see her.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because she is living in sin.” 

Ella was sitting opposite to him, straight up in a stiff 
chair. She had on a dove-colored gown, with a little 
white kerchief round her throat ; but for her wonder- 
fully dressed hair she might have been an idealized 
Puritan or a modified nun. She looked very severely 


Comrades 


H3 

good, and Dick found himself realizing to the full the 
effect of that scarlet dicolleti gown of some few months 
ago, and remembering a certain frisky house party 
where she had worn it first, and he broke into a laugh. 

Klla looked very much more grave when he laughed. 

“ There is nothing amusing in it,” she said. 

“ Don’t you think that was rather an amusing thing 
for one nice girl to say about another nice girl ? ” he 
asked. 

“ I think it is quite a serious thing,” said Ella. 

“ Well, in one way you are right ; it is a serious 
thing. Do you say it to other people ? Your mutual 
friends ? ’ ’ 

“ Of course not. Don’t you understand, I am fond 
of Annie, and it ’s just the same thing to me as if she 
were not married at all. The church does not recog- 
nize such a marriage. ’ ’ 

“ But that is nonsense,” cried Dick. 

“ Do you know,” said Ella, “ that you have quite a 
habit of saying ‘ but that is nonsense ’ ? ” 

” There seems every prospect of it growing upon 
me,” said Dick. 

He spoke so sharply that Ella, taken by surprise, 
had to consider a moment. She made up her mind 
quickly, however, and spoke pleasantly but resolutely. 

“ This is a matter of conviction with me, Dick. If 
you made it a cause of breaking off the engagement, I 
would have to hold to my conviction. ’ ’ 


144 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Dick was very much irritated with her. It seemed 
difficult to believe that a girl of Ella’s intelligence 
should not realize that a man must not break off his 
engagement because his Jiancie will not be friends with 
a young and pretty married lady of his acquaintance. 
Ella began to look a little pathetic, but he was not 
much softened. 

“lam not in the least likely to do anything so ab- 
surd,” he said. “ I should have thought you would 
understand that. Eet ’s discuss the matter peaceably. 
Do you go to church every Sunday ? ” 

“Yes,” said Ella. 

“ Oh, I did n’t know. Do you remember the house 
party at Colonel Eeatham’s rather over a year ago : the 
‘ Living Pictures,’ the gymnastic performances, and so 
on — the baccarat parties and smoking concerts on Sun- 
day afternoons? Poor little Annie would have been 
frightened at our rowdiness, I think. Did you go to 
church then ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“ I was n’t aware of it.” 

“You were in bed. I went at eight o’clock in the 
morning — here I go at six. ’ ’ 

“ Does n’t it make you very cross all day ? ” 

“ Oh, I go back to bed again,” said Ella. 

“ Well, I shall have to give in, I suppose,” said Dick. 
“ My argument was going to be that you had no right 
to take the view you do of Annie’s marriage, because 


Comrades 


145 


you are not a religious woman ; but I find you are a 
very religious woman. I can only say I hope Provi- 
dence has a sense of humor. Our religion must be so very 
much harder to bear with than our sins, sometimes.” 

Ella was sitting back in her chair with the same 
pathetic calmness on her face, but her shoulders had 
the aspect of one who has faced a danger pluckily, sur- 
mounted it, and is resting after the efibrt. Presently 
she began to look meek. 

“ You are going to be my husband,” she said. “ If 
you order me to ignore my feeling in this matter and 
go and see Annie, it will be my duty to do it.” 

This was so delightfully incongruous that Archer 
laughed again, but he still felt irritated. 

” Please don’t expect any dramatic behavior of that 
kind from me, now or at any time,” he protested, ” or 
you will be dreadfully disappointed. I never ‘ order ’ 
anything except dinner — and I sha’n’t have to order 
even that when we are married — shall I ? I’m afraid 
you ’ll find me a very tame, ineffective sort of person; 
it ’s what I ’ve always found myself.” 

Then they let the subject drop and talked of other 
matters. It was not until Dick was taking his leave 
that she came near to it again by asking Dick to thank 
Annie for her message. 

I ’m really fond of her, and anxious about her 
marriage,” she said. “ How does it answer, really, 
Dick ? Is Annie happy ? ” 

xo 


146 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Perfectly happy.” 

“And he?” 

“ You saw during the engagement how much in love 
he was ; you must judge of his happiness by that.” 

“ Do you like him ? ” she asked. 

“ He ’s a man one never seems to know any better — 
I don’t dislike him.” 

“ I ’d rather have married Bee Bailey’s socialist,” 
said Klla ; “ but I ’m glad I had n’t to do either. I 
wonder how it will all end ? ” 

Archer wondered too. There was a vague uneasi- 
ness in Annie’s happiness that puzzled him. He heard 
rumors now and again that Eustace Stravil was not 
altogether an immaculate husband, but it was unlikely 
that the rumors, which were no more than one hears 
of everyone, should have reached her. 

The tone Ella had taken with regard to her attitude 
towards Annie made it quite impossible for Dick to 
speak to her again on the subject, but he never con- 
cealed it from her that he thought her scruples non- 
sense. When she found he went to the Stravils’s as 
much as ever, she showed that she was not only con- 
tent, but pleased. 

“ It will be so nice,” she said, “ if neither of us ever 
takes offence at each other’s convictions ! ” 

“ It would be nicer if we did n’t have any,” Dick 
said, and so the matter dropped. 



CHAPTER XV 

A MIRACI.K OP TACT 

M rs. BAIEEY, feeling herself, as it were, the 
author of Annie Stravil’s marriage, gave a party 
to celebrate the anniversary of it. Dick was not pres- 
ent. A previous engagement with Ella stood in the 
way. So he called in Sloane Street next day, late in 
the afternoon, and found Nan alone and a little de- 
pressed. Her face cleared at his entrance. 

“ Oh, how nice of you ! ” she said. “ I was just go- 
ing to ring and say I was n’t at home when I heard the 
door-bell ; but I thought it might be you, and so I 
risked it. There are so few people with whom one can 
go on being dull, comfortably.” 

” Am I going to have that effect on you?” said 
Dick. 

“ I am not going to make the slightest effort to be 
lively or good-tempered. Is n’t it horrid to be lonely 
the day after a nice party ? One feels in the mood to 
‘ sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the deaths 
of kings, and talk of worms and graves and epitaphs/ 
147 


148 


The Priest’s Marriage 


and say one has indigestion. Won’t it be horrid to 
be old enough and dull enough to have things like 
that ? I feel the foreshadowing of it now. I was 
struggling with the temptation not to have any dinner. 
For the first time in my life, I felt feminine yearnings 
for a chop and a cup of tea.” 

‘ ‘ That would be more than a foreshadowing of in- 
digestion : it would be a direct means, ’ ’ said Dick. 

“ Oh, I should n’t have eaten the chop, I expect,” 
said Nan. “ Stay and dine, Dick, just to encourage 
the cook, if you are not engaged. ’ ’ 

“ I ’m a little engaged, but I can disengage myself 
by telegram if you ’ll let someone take it to the office.” 

” I was sorry not to be at Mrs. Bailey’s last night — 
on your wedding anniversary,” he said, after the mes- 
sage had been sent. 

” It was n’t the anniversary ; to-day is the anniver- 
sary. Men always forget dates, don’t they ? I asked 
Mrs. Bailey to have her party yesterday because I 
thought it would be nice to be alone to-night — and, 
you see, I was alone, was n’t I ? ” 

She gave a little uneasy laugh. Dick did not speak. 

” Eustace is n’t dining at home, I suppose. He 
would have been here by now if he had been coming. 
It ’s a good thing, is n’t it, that men are not so senti- 
mental as women ? They would never get on if they 
were. He was so nice last night, before he had to 
leave and go to his friend ; people said he was charm- 


A Miracle of Tact 


149 


ing. I ’m sorry you were not there. Lots of people 
liked him who had n’t liked him before.” 

“I’m sorry too,” said Dick. 

“ Did you enjoy yourself where you were ? ” 

“ I was in the country. It was an engagement of 
rather long standing. Ella and I were staying a couple 
of days with some aunts of hers ; I don’t know why.” 

“ Oh, I do,” said Nan. 

“ Is it a question of expectations ? ” asked Dick. 

“ No, a nicer reason than that,” Annie answered. 
She knew Ella would not have gone to a party given 
to celebrate her marriage, and it seemed she had pre- 
vented Dick from being present lest her absence should 
be remarked on ; but she did not want to talk about 
that matter any more to Dick. 

“ Here is dinner,” said she, and they went down- 
stairs. 

They were scarcely seated, however, when Stravil 
entered. Archer noticed that he looked wan and 
worried and a little ashamed. Those rumors came into 
his mind with irritating persistence. There was a 
certain constraint in Stravil’ s greeting of his wife, but 
his manner to Dick was cordiality itself. 

“ We did not see you last night,” he said, his voice 
implying polite regret. 

“ I was out of town, unfortunately,” said Dick. 

“ We were in our glory,” said Stravil. “ The house 
was full of noise and heat and draughts. Annie had 


The Priest’s Marriage 


150 

on the most gorgeous frock I ever saw, and I hated my 
fellow creatures more than ever. ’ ’ 

“ It was my wedding frock modified,” said Nan. 
” Had you forgotten it ? ” 

“ You did n’t look like that on your wedding day.” 

“ Did n’t I look nice ? ” said Annie. ” I hoped I 
did ; I wanted to.” 

“ You had enough admiration to satisfy ten women, 
I should say. I thought it was a new frock ; but I put 
it to Archer, could I be expected to recognize a frock 
that made you look like a white nun, when bits of it 
were cut off and your arms and neck were growing out 
of wreaths of flaming red roses ? ’ ’ 

That sounds as if the frock had been made very 
pretty last night,” said Dick. 

They were still engaged with the soup ; it was not 
very good. Eustace left his untasted, with an air of 
impatience, and drank water as if to keep himself 
occupied. 

Presently entries followed. 

” Where ’s the fish ? ” Eustace said sharply to his 
wife. 

“ There is n’t any this evening,” she said. 

“Why not? there should be. What ’s the cook 
thinking of ? Do you want me to have no dinner at all ? ” 

“ There are other things,” said Nan ; “ perhaps you 
will like them. I did n’t order any fish. I would 
have if I ’d thought you were coming home. I know 


A Miracle of Tact 


151 

you sometimes dine off nothing else, but then at other 
times you won’t look at it. You are rather a difficult 
person to order a dinner for, you know.” 

” Go and see if there is any fish in the house,” said 
Kustace to the servant. 

” I dare say there is,” said Nan ; “I tell her to 
leave things out wffien you are away. I hate long 
dinners when I am by myself. I expected to be alone. 
I would have shirked dinner altogether if Dick had n’t 
turned up and had charity enough to stay and help me 
to overcome a fit of the blues.” 

” Unexpected visitors are always so welcome, espe- 
cially when they are rare visitors,” said Eustace. 

” Why, yes. I had n’t seen Dick for some time,” 
said Nan. 

‘ ‘ And he turned up j ust when you were alone, and 
had a fit of the blues, ’ ’ said Eustace. ‘ ‘ I call that a 
miracle of tact.” 

If he had called it treason or forgery the others could 
not have been more astonished at his tone. Annie 
colored, more from shame at her husband’s behavior 
than because his words suggested jealousy, though that 
was disturbing enough. 

“As I gather that if I had n’t happened to call, you 
and Mrs. Stravil would have been dining off tea and 
chops, or rather tea and one chop, I hope you are very 
much obliged to me,” said Dick. “ The casual visitor 
has his uses.” 


152 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Stravil was still scowling savagely at stewed sweet- 
breads, but by this time Annie had regained her com- 
posure. Word was brought that there was fish, and it 
would be sent up shortly. Eustace’s temper seemed no 
better for the news. 

“ I wonder if Ella will ever sink to tea and chops 
when you are out, Dick ? ” Annie said. 

She did not look at him, but Dick knew from her 
not doing so that in her heart she was begging him 
not to be irritated at her means of answering her hus- 
band’s foolish fancies. He was not irritated ; he sup- 
ported her promptly, though he had an uneasy feeling 
that they were both taking exactly the wrong course. 

“ Ella,” he said, ” will dine at a restaurant ; I am 
convinced of that. She does n’t like tea and chops.” 

“ Miss Payne ! ” Stravil’s interest broke through 
his fit of temper for a moment. ” What ’s this? I 
had n’t heard. Are we to congratulate you. Archer ? 
You know, of course, Annie. Why was n’t Miss Payne 
at the glorification of us last night ? But now I re- 
member, Archer was n’t either. I suppose they were 
better employed ; but at any rate she should have been 
here to-night. You should have asked her.” 

That was just what Dick had expected, and there 
was no knowing now how unpleasant an ill-tempered 
man, dissatisfied with his dinner, might be next mo- 
ment. He had half a mind to say Ella was out of town 
or ill. He half wished she was ; or, at any rate, he 


A Miracle of Tact 


153 


wished he had been more angry and less amused at her 
nonsensical prejudices. 

‘ ‘ I had n’ t asked anybody, ’ ’ said Annie. ‘ ‘ I had n’ t 
got over last night, but Dick happened to call and I 
asked him to stay. I did n’t want to be alone to- 
night.” 

” Well, I do,” said Eustace, rising. ” I don’t want 
any dinner at all, I find. No, don’t rise — don’t disturb 
yourself : I want to be alone. I ’m not hungry — I ’m 
not well. Excuse me, both of you. ’ ’ 

He left the room with an attempt at a smile and a 
gesture that might have been meant to pacify his wife’s 
disquiet. Annie and Dick went on with their dinner ; 
there was nothing else to be done, under the supervision 
of the butler. They talked as well as they could of 
indifferent matters. Annie looked angry and ashamed, 
as well she might, but more puzzled than either. 

” What ought I to do, Dick ? ” she said at last, when 
they were alone. ‘ ‘ Somehow, I feel so helpless with 
him, and so ignorant. It is a queer thing to say of 
one’s husband, but I know him so little, much less 
than I do you. If you were angry with me, I would j ust 
go and ask you what was the matter. But I seem to 
know him less and less every day. What is the best 
thing to do when one’s husband is cross ? Ought I to 
go and knock at his door and ask him to make it up ? ” 

Dick would like to have gone upstairs and knocked 
the door in, and asked Stravil what the devil he meant 


154 


The Priest’s Marriage 


by making such an exhibition of himself ; but he an- 
swered according to convention : 

‘ ‘ I suppose you ought : he looked ill. I noticed it 
when he came into the room. ’ ’ 

When Annie left the table, Dick went to the drawing- 
room and turned over some magazines. It was some 
time before Annie joined him, and then her face had 
the flush that comes from recent bathing in cold water. 
He did n’t grasp the meaning of the flush at the mo- 
ment, but he saw that she was more disturbed than 
when she had left him. 

“ It is all right,” she smiled. “ He had dined and 
was n’t hungry. He did n’t mean to be cross, but he 
has had a long railway journey to-day, and his head 
aches awfully. I sometimes don’t quite know what 
I ’m saying when I have a bad headache. He asked 
me to apologize, and say good-night to you for him 
when you go. ’ ’ 

“ I think I shall let you say it now,” said Dick. 
“You look very tired yourself.” 

“ You have had a nasty evening, have n’t you ? ” 
said Annie. “I’m afraid it won’t encourage you to 
come again very soon.” 

“ Oh, yes : I shall come again very soon,” said Dick. 

“ Dick, ought I to tell Eustace about Ella ? ” 

“ You did, did n’t you ? ” said Archer. 

“ Oh, your engagement. Yes, I hope you don’t mind. 
No, I mean about— about the horrid thing she thinks.” 


A Miracle of Tact 


155 


“ That nonsense? No — and yet, I suppose he will 
have to know. I don’t know what you should do.” 

” Neither do I. Is n’t it tiresome not to know what 
one ought to tell one’s husband ? There ought to be 
training schools for marriage.” 

Dick could not help her, and as he had the misfortune 
to know it, he could only take his leave and feel help- 
lessly angry with Ella. Quite helplessly ; after the 
tone she had taken it would have been difficult to dis- 
cuss the subject with her again, especially as Stravil’s 
bearing of to-night had made it quite impossible for 
him to quarrel with her on Mrs. Stravil’s account. 

He could do nothing. Annie’s puzzled face followed 
him down the street reproachfully. There were those 
rumors. Stravil’s behavior would have been possible 
to a man thoroughly ashamed of himself and anxious 
to find relief in wounding his wife. The meaning of 
Annie’s depression and of one or two things she had let 
fall in speaking of her husband began to make them- 
selves clear to him. Stravil had not been home all the 
previous night. Annie had not known where he was, 
and this had been the first time she had seen him 
since he had left the party on the excuse of having 
to see a college friend. More — he was absolutely 
certain that when Annie had gone upstairs her hus- 
band’s door had been shut upon her. She had in- 
vented those wifely excuses for him ; the time she had 
been absent she had spent in her room crying. 



CHAPTER XVI 

A QUKvSTlON OF A DINNER 

HE morning after Stravil’s outburst of temper he 



1 woke up with influenza. This accounted for his 
conduct to some extent, but, on the other hand, it made 
a discussion of it impossible. He was too ill for Nan 
to say as much as she felt she ought to say if she spoke 
at all, so the incident passed over for a time. 

Eustace, ill in bed, was a gentle, tractable person. 
Physical suffering showed him in a becoming light. 
After a day or two Nan put off a few engagements and 
went to Eastbourne with her husband for a couple of 
weeks’ change. It was like the honeymoon over again, 
only with no sad news at the end of it. They came 
home both better for the holiday, and in good spirits. 
As they sat together after dinner, a day or two later. 
Nan looked through the cards which had been left 
during her absence, and, finding those of Beatrice 
Bailey and Mr. Sutton, remembered her promise. 

“ Eustace, I want to give a horrid little dinner, and 
ask some people you don’t like. I may, may n’t I ? ” 




A Question of a Dinner 


157 


“ I suppose so,” said Eustace, looking up from his 
book. ‘ ‘ Who are the people ? ’ ’ 

“The Baileys and Mr. Sutton — that ’s the man 
Beatrice is engaged to — and someone to take in Mrs. 
Bailey and Eflfie, and one or two people to meet them 
— Eady Mary and Mr. Caine. You can take in Lady 
Mary, and Mr. Caine can take me, and then we need n’t 
have anyone else.” 

“ Well, as you probably posted the invitations the 
day before yesterday, I may as well give my consent,” 
said Eustace, laughing, and turning a leaf of his book. 

He had spoken quite pleasantly, but Annie was a 
little indignant. 

“ They are n’t even written,” she said. “ If I ’d 
posted them I would tell you what I had done, not 
ask if I might do it.” 

“ Then don’t post them, dear,” said Eustace. “ I 
don’t like those girls. The one that is decent is plain, 
and the pretty one is hopelessly bad style.” 

“ You don’t like any of my friends much, do you ? ” 
said ISTan. 

“ I don’t like them at all,” Eustace answered, frankly. 

‘ ‘ I wish they were nicer ; but then I dare say you 
would n’t like them any better, however nice they 
were.” 

“ I dare say not,” said Eustace. 

“ We don’t seem to have very many friends to choose 
from, do we ? Not so many as other people, I mean. 


158 


The Priest’s Marriage 


I wonder why ? That makes it more of a pity that you 
don’t like the few that I have.” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it,” said Eustace. ” I 
don’t love my neighbors much.” 

” Now I ’m quite ready to like all your friends,” said 
Annie ; ” only, as I say, you ’re such a misanthrope, 
you don’t seem to have any — except Mr. Carlisle, that 
college friend you go to see so often.” 

“ Ah ! So you do object to him,” cried Eustace. 
” I knew you would ; are you not a woman ? ” 

“ I don’t object at all,” said Annie. ” I was going to 
say, why don’t you ask him to dinner ? What are you 
being cross about ? Why, my dear, you knew the 
poor Baileys before you knew me. If you had n’t mar- 
ried me you ’d have been going about to dances with 
them still : if you had n’ t fallen in love with Effie. ’ ’ 

*‘*‘Exaltate Deo,'' murmured Eustace under his breath 
and half laughing. 

“What ’sthat?” 

“ A pious sentiment, my dear. I still remember 
enough Latin to exclaim it when I feel a pious emo- 
tion, and the thought that I had after all escaped a 
much worse fate made me just a little thankful.” 

“ Tell me why you are being cross,” said Nan. 

“ Because I ’m an ill-tempered brute, I suppose,” 
said Stravil, softening, as she sat down on a stool on 
the rug and leaned her head on his knee. “ There ’s 
really no other reason.” 


A Question of a Dinner 


159 


“ Well — I must have my dinner,” she said, “ be- 
cause I told Bee I would ; so don’t be Grosser than you 
can help, or I shall wish I had sent the invitations 
without asking you. You did n’t begin to be cross 
until you saw a prospect of escape ; that was a little 
mean of you, was n’t it ? They are n’t really horrid, 
you know ; they are both good and nice in their way, 
and Effie is clever, if she would ever stop talking long 
enough for one to find it out.” 

” I ’ve never heard her say anything that so much 
as suggested cleverness, ’ ’ said Eustace. 

“ No, I suppose not. Now I think of it, she never does 
in company. She ’s afraid of being thought blue. It is 
only when she is alone with girls that she lets herself go. ’ ’ 

” Shall you ask Archer ? ” 

” No,” said Annie. 

Eustace looked at her keenly. 

‘ ‘ Are you brooding over my ill- temper that night at 
dinner? I thought you had forgotten it.” 

” Well, I had,” said Nan, ” all this nice fortnight 
we have been having ; but it was bound to come back 
into my mind when the time came to invite people 
again — although, of course, it ’s too late to scold or 
quarrel about it.” 

‘ ‘ Did you want to do either ? I was ill : it ought 
not to count. ’ ’ 

” It does n’t between us, but I was very angry all 


the same.” 


i6o The Priest’s Marriage 

“ I was n’t unkind to you.” 

“You made me ashamed of you ; that was horrid.” 

” I was ashamed of myself. I ’d have said so next 
morning, only I had such a headache I could n’t think 
of anything else. I ’ll say so to Archer, if you like.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, certainly not. That would be much worse ; 
besides, I did.” 

Did what ? ” 

“ Invented nice messages from you, and said you 
were ill. He ’s forgotten all about it by now.” 

” Did you really do that?” said Stravil, amused. 
” I wonder what women would do if lying had never 
been invented ! I ’m really much obliged to you. 
You ’d better ask Archer and Miss Payne. Beg Miss 
Payne not to wear a gown that makes us all nervous, 
and I ’ll undertake to be very agreeable to her. Why, 
what ’s the matter ? ” 

” I don’t want to ask either of them.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Well, Ella won’t come.” 

‘ ‘ Have you quarrelled ? ’ ’ 

” No.” 

” Don’t say she objects to me : we used to be fairly 
good friends. Have I managed to offend her ? ’ ’ 

“ No, I have.” 

” You ! I don’t believe it : a gentle little thing like 
you ! Why, you don’t even know you are offended 
until you ’ve had a fortnight to brood over it. I’m 


A Question of a Dinner i6i 

quite sure it ’s the other girl in the wrong. Why are 
you turning scarlet ? Can it be possible you have 
something on your conscience ? ’ ’ 

He spoke as if he would have been very pleased if 
she had. 

Annie thought a moment, and then said quietly : 

“ She won’t be friends with me now, because of our 
marriage.” 

‘ ‘ Because of our marriage ? But I never paid the 
slightest attention to Miss Payne.” 

Annie laughed outright. 

“You vain person ! Not that at all ; because she 
thought it wrong of us to marry.” 

“ She thought it wrong ? ” 

Eustace repeated the words in amazement ; then he 
said “ Ella Payne ! ” and began to laugh. 

‘ ‘ Ella Payne, ’ ’ he repeated. ‘ ‘ That ’s the last thing 
I should have expected. And to think of the low opinion 
I had of that girl ! I did n’t know she was a Catholic.” 

“ She ’s not ; only very high church.” 

‘ ‘ Poor girl, ’ ’ he said . ‘ ‘ How one misjudges people ! 
I ’m sorry this prevents our seeing more of her.” 

“ I don’t want to see her while she is so silly. But 
I ’m sorry that she is silly, and that her silliness pre- 
vents me from seeing Dick as often as I used.” 

“ Oh, we can dine without him,” said Stravil, care- 
lessly. 

“ I ’m to give the dinner then ? ” 

XI 


i 62 


The Priest’s Marriage 


He put his hand on her hair, and pushed her head 
back until he could look straight into her face. He 
looked keenly and lovingly, and then released her with 
a laugh. 

“ I really believe she ’s quite honest, and had n’t 
settled her plans without leave, and did n’t mean to. 
Ah, my dear, my dear, it ’s a bad sign when a woman 
won’t fib to her husband about little things. It makes 
one very nervous about the big ones.” 

Annie got up and moved very quickly. She was 
very angry. She and her husband had been on the 
verge of a disagreement all the while they had been 
talking, but now she was really offended. Presently 
Eustace rose and began to walk towards the door. 

” Are you going out ? ” said Annie. “It ’s late, 
is n’t it?” 

” Not very. I thought I ’d look up Carlisle for an 
hour.” 

‘ ‘ Then give him my compliments, and say I want to 
know if it is he who has taught you to sneer at your 
wife, for you never said things like that before he came 
to town.” 

Eustace came slowly back from the door. His eyes 
were on the ground and his hands behind him. Sud- 
denly he stood still and raised his face. He flung out 
his arms with the abandonment of a child. 

‘ ‘ My darling, forgive me : kiss me ! ” 

She kissed him readily enough, for her sharp speech 


A Question of a Dinner 163 

had been no sooner made than she regretted it ; but she 
had been hurt, and the hurt ached still. She drew 
back her face, but with a wistful look in her eyes. 

“ Now,” she said, “ I ’ve kissed you three times — 
be good, and say that you are quite sure that I shall 
never tell you fibs of any sort, either big or little ones. ’ ’ 
He seized her face between his hands and kissed it 
again and again. 

“ My dear, my dear,” he said ; “don’t you see that 
it would n’t make the least difference to me if you did ? 
That ’s the trouble.” 




CHAPTER XVII 


UNDERSTANDING 


NNIE’S dinner was a success. It was just the 



right size for sociability, and all her guests en- 
joyed it. Beatrice Bailey perhaps most of all ; but 
then she had a special reason for pleasure. George 
Sutton had spent the fortnight previous to the dinner 
at Leeds, the scene of his chief and favorite philan- 
thropic institution. She did not see him on his return 
till they met at Annie’s table, and the moment she saw 
him she noted a change that was for the better. It was 
not that he wore a linen shirt; he had conceded so much 
to convention several times before to please her, but 
then the shirt had always been a little limp of aspect 
and doubtful about the collar. To-night no one in the 
room was better starched, and even Archer, had he 
been present, could not have outdone him in the 
amount of shirt front visible. His hair spoke the last 
perfection of a civilized toilet, and his manner to her 
showed a change even more marked than the change 
in his appearance. It was not that he seemed to love 


164 


Understanding 


165 

her more ; he had always loved her ; but to-night he 
seemed to have more grace in showing it. Beatrice 
felt herself growing quite pretty under this new state 
of things. She began to be as bright as Kffie without 
being as pert, and the climax, to her delight, was 
reached when George suggested that, instead of going 
home with her mother and Kfl&e in the brougham, she 
should allow him to take her himself in a hansom. 

There is, perhaps, nothing that pleases a woman so 
well as quite unnecessary expenditure for her sake. 
If a man spends what occasion requires, that proves 
nothing. But a little lavishness, if it is only to the 
extent of three pleasant, but superfluous, words in a 
telegram, is evidence of affection that makes every vein 
in a woman’s body tingle with delight. That cab-fare 
would have paid for at least one number of somebody’s 
encyclopaedia for George’s “ brothers,” but it seemed 
that her society was to count before George’s duties to 
them at last. It might be wrong, but it was delicious. 
She knew something pleasant was coming, and waited, 
enjoying the expectation of it. She had not very long 
to wait. 

” Socialism is not a mistake,” began George, 
abruptly, as the hansom started. 

” Of course not,” said Beatrice. ” The idea of it is 
beautiful.” 

” That ’s just it,” said George. ” A perfect world 
would be socialistic ; that goes without saying ; but 


t66 


The Priest’s Marriage 


socialism needs something more than perfect givers ; it 
needs perfect takers, and they are very much harder to 
find.” 

“ I should have thought a great many more people 
were good takers than good givers, ’ ’ said Beatrice. 

“ Leave out your adjectives, and you would be 
right,” said George. ” Before any man will give half 
his goods to feed the poor, so to speak, he must be a 
true socialist ; but any loafer can do the taking, and so 
one can’t get at the right class. I ’ve had a great dis- 
appointment, and I thought I ’d like to tell you about 
it at once. I have given up my little Utopia at 
Leeds.” 

“ Little Utopia ” was what scornful people called Sut- 
ton’s Socialistic Institution. Beatrice felt more elated 
than ever when he used the term ; but she was sorry 
he had been disappointed, and said so. 

“ Well, if it was to turn out a failure, it was better 
it should turn out a failure before I had parted with a 
considerable portion of my income to make it perma- 
nent,” said George, cheerfully. “ I ought to have 
taken warning at the first, when the members we 
started with tried so hard to keep those whom they 
called their ‘ inferiors ’ out of the institution. I did n’t 
mind their quarrelling ; even socialists are human. But 
they wanted to be ‘ exclusive ’ ; I did n’t. That ought 
to have shown me I was the only socialist in the 
club.” 


Understanding 


167 


“ But did n’t you always know,” asked Beatrice, 
” that the commoner people are, the more afraid they 
are of knowing people a little more common than 
themselves ? ’ ’ 

” I thought that was just what socialism ought to 
cure,” said Sutton, cheerfully; “but somehow it 
does n’t. It was no good my taking down a crowd of 
cultured men and women to teach them everyone was 
equal ; they were willing to believe themselves the 
equal of anybody, but they would n’t admit they 
were n’t superior to anybody. They passed a vote of 
censure on me for lowering the tone of the club by 
admitting factory hands. You ’re laughing — oh, yes, 
I laughed too. They did n’t know how to move a vote 
of censure. I had to show them how, and put it in 
proper form for them, and it was passed by a large 
majority.” 

“ How ungrateful ! ” said Beatrice. 

“ Oh, there ’s no gratitude in socialism — I did n’t 
want that. If there ’s any truth in socialism, the takers 
have no more reason for gratitude than the givers. 
What troubled me was that I did so much harm. My 
idea was they ought to have more amusement. The 
sort of amusements we have, you know — dancing, and 
singing, and so on. The concerts were pretty well. 
They liked the bad music best ; but then so many 
people like bad music best ; and when the dances grew 
into fancy-dress balls they were very popular indeed. 


i68 


The Priest’s Marriage 


But the glamour of fancy dress took the club like a 
fever. After a little while, the members of the club 
never seemed to me to be in their ordinary clothes. I 
can’t say I disliked that ; it was picturesque, and why 
should n’t workers look as beautiful as idlers ? They 
did n’t, of course ; but still that was n’t their fault. 
They did their best, and their costumes were useful for 
the Shakespeare readings. This was last winter.” 

” Well ? ” said Beatrice. 

” Well, the next thing was acting instead of reading 
— costume again. And the next thing was modern 
drama — not always well chosen. Of course, I could n’t 
always be there to choose for them, and if they were 
never to learn to choose for themselves what was the 
use of the institution ? When I went up a fortnight 
ago for my last inspection I found a deputation of 
parents waiting to curse me for encouraging the young 
people to spend all their earnings on finer}’-. One girl 
was in prison for stealing spangles. Our Hamlet had 
gone on the stage and taken Ophelia with him — at 
least they were not on the stage, but they were living 
together, and hoped some day to be on the stage. 
Their parents had a good deal to say. They blamed 
my socialism for the couple’s indifference to marriage. 
I think that was going too far. I admitted that my 
institution had n’t been altogether a success, and that 
the best thing I could do was to clo.se it. The club, so 
much of it as had kept fairly respectable, was very 


Understanding 


169 


angry, and said I had no right to look back when I 
had put my hand to the plough. I told them I was n’t 
looking back — I was looking forward. All the same, I 
might have listened to them if I had not caught them 
abusing the deputation of parents for not having de- 
ferred their censure of me until the institution was en- 
dowed and free to act as it pleased. It appeared they 
would have had a good deal to say to me on their own 
account afterwards. This settled the matter. I sold 
the lease of the rooms to the Primrose Club. I ’ll put 
no money out of my hands. You and I can make a 
fairly good use of it. We will live well within our 
means, so that when we meet with nice people in 
trouble we can put things right for them. We shall 
do just as much good that way, and be more comfort- 
able ourselves. ’ ’ 

“ We shall be able to have that brougham,” said 
Bee. 

” Yes. Did you want it very much all this time, and 
not say so ? ” 

“ No,” said Beatrice. “ I only wanted to stop 
people condoling with me for not having it.” 

“ Was that it ? ” he said. ” Well, I am beginning 
to see that what people say matters more than one 
would think.” 

” It does n’t matter to the person they say it of,” 
said Bee ; “ but it matters dreadfully to the person they 
say it to, ’ ’ 


170 The Priest’s Marriage 

“ That ’s what I did n’t understand before,” said 
George. 

He put his arm round her — and although it was 
dark, and she could only see him dimly, she knew that 
he understood now and would always understand. 

” You waited patiently, and let me find out my mis- 
take for myself. I shall always like to remember 
that,” he said. 

” If I had n’t,” said Beatrice, “ you might have 
given these people up for my sake before you had found 
them out, and then you would always have regretted 
them.” 

He did not speak. He knew the extent of his past 
folly better even than she. He knew he would not 
have given up the convictions — he would have given 
up Beatrice — and the thought of the worth of what he 
would have given up, as compared with the worthless- 
ness of that for which he would have given it up, was 
almost too much for him. He did not speak, because 
he could not. 

After a little while they began to laugh over the 
situation, and agree that they would keep quiet con- 
cerning Sutton’s change of views. They would not 
even — as they might easily now do — hasten the date 
of their marriage, because the triumph of the people 
who had disapproved of them from the first would be 
so irritating. There would be something apologetic in 
owning to having come round to the disapprovers’ way 


Understanding 


171 

of thinking when they had expressed it so often, and 
not one person in five hundred knows how to be apolo- 
gized to. It would be comparatively easy to own “ I 
have been a fool ” if one’s hearers were not so prone to 
take the confession as a cue for enlargement on the 
exact extent and nature of your folly, just when you 
have found it out for yourself, and are feeling very sore 
about it. 

Besides, ’ ’ said George, ‘ ‘ you would have so much 
more annoyance than I — just as you have done all 
along. When I think of the trial I must have been to 
you ” 

“ Don’t,” said Beatrice, interrupting quickly; “ don’t 
think of it. I was happy all the while.” 

” That was because you were good,” said George. 
“I’m glad you are good, but I ought to have made 
you happy irrespective of your own goodness — and I 
will now.” 

He had done it already. It was true that until now 
she had been happy only because she was patient by 
disposition and effort, and that is a very trying sort of 
happiness. The change sent the blood singing through 
her veins. It made the whole world different. She 
was no longer a girl to be condoled with, but one to be 
envied and congratulated. She had noticed even this 
evening the difference in the manner of her friends 
towards her. She could have borne the sneers and 
pity of the whole world for George’s love’s sake, but it 


172 


The Priest s Marriage 


was very much nicer to have his love and the respect 
and consideration of the world in addition. 

Beatrice was a little commonplace in spite of her love 
and loyalty — and the simile that occurred to her was 
that of being well wrapped up in something soft and 
warm, after standing a long time in a thorough draught. 




CHAPTER XVIII 

WHAT IS SIN? 

W HITE George Sutton and Beatrice were having 
their explanation, Annie and her husband 
were sitting on each side of the fire, lounging for a few 
last moments before ringing for the lights to be put 
out. Annie threw back her head, struggling with a 
little yawn. 

“ Well, it ’s over,” she said, “ and it was n’t so very 
bad, was it ? You were very nice indeed, Eustace. If 
you hated it, you did n’t show that you did in the 
least. I hope you did n’t hate it very much.” 

“I’m glad I pleased you,” said Eustace. 

“You often do, you know.” 

Annie raised her face, with a little laugh in her e5^es 
as she spoke. She did not mean to be coquettish, but 
she was charming. Her husband looked at her and 
spoke slowly : 

“ I have given up Carlisle for your sake,” he 
said. 

Annie was quite distressed. 

173 


“ Given up Mr. 


174 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Carlisle,” she repeated, ” for one cross speech ? And I 
did n’t mean it, either. I don’t want to separate you 
from any of your friends. Only it seemed to ihe, just 
for one moment when I was silly, that he was sep- 
arating us. But you need n’t give him up, need you ? 
Why not ask him here ? I would be pleased to have 
him come here. ’ ’ 

” I would n’t,” said Eustace. “ I know too much 
to want a tame priest about the house.” 

” I did n’t know that he was a priest,” said Annie, 
surprised. ” You said he was an old college friend.” 

” Well, an old college friend would be bound to be a 
priest, unless he was an apostate too — a convert, I 
mean, of course.” 

“And he is n’t?” 

“ No ; certainly not.” 

“ Well, he can’t be a very bigoted man, or he would 
have given you up, would n’t he ? Were you very- 
fond of him, Eustace ? ’ ’ 

“No,” said Eustace, speaking absently, “ but there 
were moods in which one liked to talk to him.” 

“ Then don’t give him up. Why should you ? ” 

Eustace was leaning back in his chair staring into 
the fire. He did not look at her as he answered : 

“ Because I am sorrier for you than for anyone else 
in the world — unless it ’s myself,” he said. 

‘ ‘ Why should you be sorry for either of us ? ” she 
asked, surprised. 


What is Sin ? 


175 


“ Because sometimes I make you miserable, and be- 
cause I ought to be miserable myself, and I am not.” 

” Eustace,” she said, perplexed, “ you say such 
strange things. Why ought you to be miserable ? 
And it ’s not true about me. You make me very 
happy. Sometimes I ’m a little cross, I know, but 
when I get older and wiser it will be all right. You 
see, I did n’t know that people who loved each other 
ever said things to hurt each other, and you do say 
things that hurt me now and then : when you don’t 
believe what I say, and sneer about women as if you 
meant me ; and then, of course, I try to say something 
disagreeable back again. I ought n’t to, I know, but 
I do, although I know all the time that I shall be sorry 
afterwards. But presently we shall grow out of all 
that, sha’n’t we ? We love each other, and so we 
must be happy in the end.” 

“ That ’s your faith, is it ? Have n’t you found out 
yet that sin is quite the saddest thing in all the world ? ” 

“Sin?” 

“ I beg your pardon. I meant love. It was a slip 
of the tongue ; I meant love. And yet, if you read 
your own prayer-book, you ’ll find there ’s a family 
likeness between the two. ‘ Has of itself the nature 
of sin,’ you know.” 

Annie drew herself up in her chair, staring at her 
husband in dismay. Of course she had read and heard 
the passage he quoted. A great wave of hatred and 


176 


The Priest’s Marriage 


disgust of the man who could refer to such words, 
when they had been talking of love, seemed to sweep 
her far away from him in one moment. 

“ Why don’t you face the truth ? ” he continued. 
“We love each other : we ’ve chosen love. There ’s 
no escaping the choice, but what is the good of trying 
to persuade ourselves we ’ve done something holy in 
seeking our own happiness ? ’’ 

“ Have we done that ? ” 

Annie did not speak aloud — she could not. She 
waited a moment for that horrible feeling of disgust to 
pass off, but it did not. She looked at her husband’s 
splendidly handsome face : it did not please her in the 
least. She could not separate it from the thoughts that 
lay behind it. 

Next morning was Sunday. Annie woke with a 
sense of dissatisfaction. She had been tired the night 
before, so had slept soon and heavily, but her dreams 
had been disagreeable, though she could not remember 
them. There had seemed to be a faint, unpleasant 
savor of wickedness floating in the air all night, and 
even the sight of a brilliantly fine morning did not 
quite dispel it. All this time the spring had been 
creeping on, disguised in a waterproof and umbrella, 
as it were, unrecognized. Yesterday had been toler- 
ably fine, but Annie had not been out, so had not 
noticed it; to-day there was no disguise to hide spring’s 
beauty. The Square Gardens were full of it, the air 


What is Sin ? 


177 


was almost intoxicatingly fresh, and the moment the 
window was opened, church bells began to ring. 

It was Sunday, of course. Annie remembered that 
she had not been to church for a long time, and de- 
cided she would go. lyater, she was to lunch and 
spend the afternoon with an old school friend who had 
come to town for a few days. 

Eustace had gone out already. There was a nice 
little pencilled note from him saying that she had been 
sleeping so soundly that he would not disturb her, and 
that he hoped she would have a pleasant day with her 
friend. 

Just as she finished reading Eustace’s message, a 
note was brought her from her school friend, postpon- 
ing the visit. 

This was a disappointment. A long gossip with an 
untroubled girl, who knew nothing of her marriage, and 
was mentally just where she and Annie had both been 
a year or so ago, would have been delightful. It would 
have been such a pleasant holiday. Her own words 
of last spring came into her mind. She wanted a little 
holiday from marriage very much just now, and it 
seemed she would have to come home soberly to lunch 
as usual, and there would be no holiday at all. She 
felt as depressed as a housemaid disappointed of her 
‘ ‘ day off. ’ ’ 

Still there was church. It had been wrong of her to 
neglect church-going all this while. If life was rather 


178 


The Priest’s Marriage 


horrid, with little undercurrents of evil everywhere, 
church was good, and she would go more regularly in 
future. There was a church near her which she re- 
spected immensely because of the splendid work it did 
among the poor, not only of its own parish, but all 
over London. She would go there. She would be 
just in time for the ordinary service if she hurried a little. 

She took short cuts through the squares and side 
streets, and came to the last crossing just as the bells 
stopped. There was a crossing-sweeper there, and no 
one was giving him any pennies. It occurred to her 
to give him one at once, because it seemed such a shame 
that the glorious weather, which everyone else found 
so cheering, should be a cause of regret to him. A 
sharp-nosed girl, very smartly dressed, passed the 
sweeper as she stopped, saying, virtuously : 

“ I never give to a crossing-sweeper on Sunday.” 

Annie laughed out aloud. It seemed such a queer 
way to set about pleasing God by compelling someone 
else to fast. 

“ Then I ’d better give you twopence, had n’t I ? ” 
she said to the crossing-sweeper, and he laughed too. 
She gave him sixpence, and his delight raised her 
spirits still further. There was a long row of bicycles 
chained to the railings. That was pleasing ; it was so 
exactly what God, as she conceived of Him, would 
have liked to see. 

The service had just begun ; everyone was kneeling. 


What is Sin ? 


179 


She walked up the aisle till she saw a bench with 
plenty of room on it, and then she knelt, too, and, 
being much in earnest, rose with every shadow of 
trouble and anxiety gone from her face. 

She opened her book and sang with the rest. 

A vague sensation of disquiet along the bench dis- 
turbed her. She glanced at her neighbor worshipper. 
He was a young man, and he was crimson with self- 
consciousness. The person next him, a younger lad, 
was giggling. She turned sharply ; an extremely 
shocked verger was beckoning to her from the aisle. 

She rose at once and followed him farther up the 
aisle. A good many people turned round and stared, 
then she was shown into a seat on the other side of the 
church which was full of women. 

Then the situation dawned on her. This was a 
church where they “ separated the sexes.” 

She felt uncomfortably conspicuous, and could not 
get her mind back to the service. Why did they 
“separate the sexes” in church? Was there any 
authority for it ? She could remember none, and she 
knew her Bible very well indeed. 

There was something about the women sitting on 
one side of the table and the men at the other at feasts, 
and in a book she had received long ago as a prize at 
school that told about a Jewish family in a besieged 
town, the ordinance was explained as because of “ the 
heat of the wine ’ ’ ; the explanation had puzzled her at 


8o 


The Priest’s Marriage 


the time, and the matter had been dead in her memory 
ever since. It came to life now, and she understood it, 
and felt herself turning redder than the self-conscious 
lads in the seat from which she had been removed. 

It was wrong to remember such things in church. 
It was wrong that one should be made to remember 
them. 

Surely, if there was one place in the world where you 
should forget one had a body and only think of one’s 
soul, it was in church. 

But in this church she remembered the men and 
women went separately to the communion rails to take 
the sacrament. Their mind was to be forced back on 
earthly things at the most sacred moment, and in the 
most sacred place a Christian can imagine. These 
lads would go up before their own mother, to learn in 
the name of God to think less of her than of themselves. 
Afterwards, when they went into the world, and met 
the usual temptations to follow their own pleasure and 
think nothing of the cost to women, they would re- 
member where they had first learned to rate women 
lower than themselves. 

It was the pet idea of the priests, this spiritual in- 
feriority of women. The priesthood he had given up 
had left its stain on Kustace. Tove was sin, or akin to 
it, and there was something rather wrong about woman- 
hood; which was hard, as one could n’t help it. She 
felt she could understand Eustace better now, after 


What is Sin ? 


i8i 

coming here ; but with the understanding, disgust 
began to rise again and overwhelm her. She was 
afraid to understand him. She had come here to 
escape from that last night’s horrible impulse of hatred 
and disgust of her husband, not to understand it and 
be confirmed in it. She would n’t let her mind dwell 
on these things ; she had never done so before, she 
would n’t now. It was all very hateful, but she would 
forget it. 

‘ ‘ Glory be to the Father ’ ’ 

It was no use ; they were in the middle of the 
psalms, and she had not attended to a word. The 
vague sensation of evil that had haunted her all last 
night was closing in upon her now in church, in spite 
of all her efforts to forget ; there was no escaping it. 
She suffered the absolute physical pain innocence 
always suffers when forced to know of the reality of 
evil. In another moment she would begin to cry from 
sheer discomfort. She looked round at the door. It 
was a long way off, but it was open, and the little patch 
of green outside with the bicycles in a row along the 
rail gave her courage. At the end of the next psalm 
she walked unobtrusively down the aisle, and out into 
the fresh air. 

What to do next ? She had come to church for com- 
fort, and because she thought she ought. There was 
another church near, where the service would be less 
irritating, but she hesitated. When one has eaten 


i 82 


The Priest’s Marriage 


tainted meat one’s impulse is not to turn to what one 
hopes may be better, but to avoid meat altogether. 
Then as she crossed the street she gave a little cry of 
pleasure. 

Dick was making for the same crossing from a side 
street. No one could possibly have looked more in 
keeping with the clean fragrance of the spring air than 
Dick did just then. She held out her hand quite 
eagerly. 

“ What are you doing down here so early ? ” she said. 

“ A good action,” said Dick. ” At least something 
I did n’t want to do, and that the person for whom it 
was done regarded as an impertinence. That ’s a good 
action, is n’t it ? ” 

“ It sounds like it,” said Annie. ” What was it ? ” 

” A young man who is having ‘ a last chance ’ in the 
Colonial Office is n’t exactly making the most of it. I 
happen to know he is going to be pounced on unex- 
pectedly to-morrow, so I thought I ’d warn him to be 
in his place, with some appearance of having done 
work, or being about to do work. He snubbed me 
with a most dignified air of being in the right ; but 
that does n’t matter : he ’ll take the warning.” 

“ He is one of the scamps Lady Feltringham is fond 
of, I suppose ? ’ ’ said Annie. 

” One of the most hopeless. She ’s very fond of him 
indeed. Why did you come out of church ? Were you 
ill?” 


What is Sin? 183 

“ No. It ’s not a nice churcli. And it ’s such a 
lovely day ! ’ ’ 

“ It is a lovely day.” 

Standing in the fresh, bright sunlight in the empty 
street, the glorious weather seemed to enter into their 
veins. 

“ I thought I was going to spend the whole day with 
Maisie Gower,” said Annie, regretfully, ” and I ’m so 
disappointed ! I got a note this morning saying she 
was obliged to go into the country. How nice it must 
be in the country ! ” 

“A day off.” 

She knew his mind had gone back to that talk in the 
spring. That was what she wanted. The time had 
indeed come. 

“ I wonder if we might ? ” 

At that moment an empty cab came round a corner, 
and stopped with an air of inquiry. That settled the 
matter. Dick handed her in and said, ” Paddington,” 
and there was an end of the discussion. About half 
way Dick stopped the cab, and, asking her to excuse 
him a moment, disappeared into a neat-looking house, 
and came back in a tweed coat and straw hat, with a 
book under his arm. 

“ I ’d forgotten how you were dressed,” said Annie. 
” Do you always leave river clothes at houses on the 
road to Paddington ? ” 

“No, but I will in future, if you ’ll promise to come 


184 


The Priest s Marriage 


out of church at just the right moment,” said Dick. 
” But for the accident of those things being where I 
left them last week, we could n’t have gone till a much 
later train.” 

“We can catch a nice early one now.” 

“Yes, and buy sandwiches and claret for lunch. We 
can get tea at a lock.” 

“ What ’s the book ? ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, that belongs to the coat and straw hat. When 
we get too lazy to talk we might read to each 
other. ’ ’ 

No two children playing truant from school could 
have been happier. Not so happy, perhaps — for even 
children have consciences. They were more like two 
children unexpectedly sent to play because the school- 
room chimney had caught fire. It was quite late in 
the afternoon before either ot them began to feel in the 
least lazy. Then Dick took the canoe under a big 
chestnut tree and began to read the Triumph of Time. 
He read it in an undertone, as if he had forgotten his 
companion. At the end, he shut the book and asked if 
he might have a pipe, 

“That ’s quite the wickedest book ever written, 
is n’t it ? ” said Annie. 

“ I should n’t say so,” said Dick. 

“ Well, when one says Swinburne everybody’s aunts 
look shocked.” 

“ I don’t know that that proves much.” 


What is Sin ? 185 

“ I ’ve liked it always,— as much as you have read 
to me. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Dick. 

“ Well, I want to know if it is wicked or not. It is 
all about love, is n’t it ? ” 

“ Not exactly all. Very nearly all, perhaps, when 
one considers the Triumph of TimeT 

“ Dick !” 

“ Well?” 

“ Will you bring a quite shocking book — a book you 
really think I ought not to see — when you come some 
day — and read it to me ? ” 

“ Well, no,” said Dick; “I don’t think I will. Why ?” 

‘ ‘ I want to see if I like it. ’ ’ 

“ Very likely you would,” said Dick. “ But that 
would prove nothing.” 

“ It would prove that I was quite shocking by 
nature, ’ ’ said Annie. 

“ Oh, no. It would only prove that you did n’t 
know in the least what it was all about.” 

“ But if I liked shocking things instinctively, with- 
out understanding them ? ’ ’ 

“ That would only prove what everyone knows 
already, that there is a certain amount of good in 
wrong things, and that you understood it quicker than 
you understood the rest. It would n’t be worth while 
to read a dull book — you ’d find it dull, you know — 
just to prove truisms, would it ? ” 


The Priest’s Marriage 


1 86 

Two healthy, vigorous young people went past in a 
punt. The man was burnt almost black in his flannels ; 
the girl was sunburnt, too ; even her hands were brown, 
and her hair was untidy ; but she looked nice, and 
happy. They were lovers, of course, and very happy 
lovers. Annie looked at them a little wistfullJ^ 

“ This is a nice place to be engaged in, is n’t it ? I 
wonder if it makes any difference whether one becomes 
engaged here or in a ballroom. ’ ’ 

“Not the slightest, I should say,” said Dick. 

“ Oh, but it might. In a ballroom a girl only looks 
pretty ; up here they can each find out if the other is 
nice. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Perhaps they got engaged in a ballroom, and came 
up here to see if they could stand the test, ’ ’ suggested 
Dick. 

“ It ’s a good test,” said Annie. “ If the man is 
nice all day, even when your hair gets rough, and your 
nose a little shiny at the end, he is sure to be a good 
husband. ’ ’ 

“ Some girls look nicest so.” 

“ Oh, that ’s just what I mean.” 

“What?” 

“ Well, if a man likes a girl because she is enjoying 
herself, he is sure to be a nice man.” 

“ That is quite past masculine understanding.” 

“ It ’s the difference between liking her for his own 
pleasure, and wanting her to be happy,” said Annie, 


What IS Sin ? 


187 


“ It as if she had got out of her looks and was going 
about in her character, and if he thinks she looks nicest 
so, they ’ll be very happy,” 

For a moment she thought Dick was going to answer 
her quite seriously. But he changed his mind, appar- 
ently, for he went on smoking without answering at 
all. Presently he put his pipe in his pocket and turned 
to her placidly : 

” Det ’s make paper boats and sail them,” he said. 

So they made paper boats, and loitered about the 
locks, and had tea at an inn, and then drifted slowly 
homewards in a warm sunset. They only just caught 
their train by a sharp run to the station. It was close 
on eight when their cab stopped in Sloane Street. 
Eustace came into the hall as the door was opened. 

“ Dick ’s been taking me up the river,” said Annie. 

” Oh, that ’s where you were all day ? ’ ’ Eustace said. ' 
He looked at her somewhat dubiously for a second, but 
his face cleared as he looked. 

” Yes. Maisie wrote that she was going into the 
country. ’ ’ 

“ I know. I found her letter just now. I ’m glad 
you were not moping at home all day. You ’ll come 
in. Archer ? ” 

“ Thanks, I ’m engaged.” 

“ Well, we know that ; but have some dinner.” 

” I mean, engaged for dinner, in consequence of 
being engaged in a more general sense,” said Archer, 


The Priest’s Marriage 


1 88 

realizing that Stravil was making himself agreeable, 
and answering accordingly. “ Ella and I are going 
to spend the evening with Ella’s godmother.” 

So soon as Archer was gone, Eustace laid his hand 
on his wife’s shoulder and looked into her happy, sun- 
burnt face. 

” It ’s very wrong of you to go off in this way, un- 
chaperoned, you know,” he said, speaking in a tone 
of banter, but of affectionate banter, ” but I can’t be 
angry if you come back as fresh and bright as this. ’ ’ 

“I’m glad you ’re pleased,” said Nan. ” It would 
have been such a horrid end to such a nice day if you 
had n’t been. I met Dick by accident as I was coming 
out of church.” 

“ Never mind where you met him,” said Eustace. 
“I’m not jealous. I used to be jealous of Dick, but I 
never shall be again, now I ’ve seen you come back 
from a whole afternoon spent in his company, with that 
child’s face. Your eyes are only ten years old.” 

” I ’ve been about that age all the afternoon,” said 
Nan, happily. 

Her husband laughed and kissed her. 




CHAPTER XIX 


A NEW JOY 



NNIE sat alone in her own room. There was a 


new wisdom and a new joy in her face. She sat 
between the crucifix and the Venus. She had said 
once that one needed them both, the Son of God and 
the ideal Mother. She understood them both better 
now, and loved them more than ever. There were no 
lilies under the crucifix, for her husband was from 
home, and she never put flowers there herself, because 
she regarded her husband’s doing so as a kindly con- 
cession to her belief. To be sure, the grim housemaid, 
who thought the practice “ Popish,” had a way of 
moving them on to a table, but she always knew where 
her husband had placed them by the damp mark the 
bowl left — the housemaid’s religion being of the sort 
that expresses itself more in objecting to other people’s 
modes of expression than in inspiring thoroughness in 
her own duties. She laughed a little to herself. She 
was very happy. She had been alone all the afternoon 
dwelling on her happiness, thanking God and praying 
from sheer fullness of heart. 


i^g 


The Priest’s Marriage 


190 

She hoped it would be a son. A woman’s first child 
should always be a son. She remembered the silly 
rhyme, “ First a girl and then a boy,” and the self-con- 
scious curate, and laughed and wondered a little. How 
could anyone be silly about such a beautiful thing ? It 
was the most beautiful and sacred thing in all the 
world. 

Oh, yes, it must be a son, — a son who would grow up 
big, and strong, and sunburnt, and very English. She 
would rather he was not clever. He might be a little 
stupid, even, if he was kindly, and honest, and manly. 
She would train him to be very strong and athletic. 
She would teach him to swim almost as soon as he 
could walk, and she would try to train herself not to be 
frightened when he did dangerous things, as a boy 
should. 

She remembered how once, in Kensington Gardens, 
she had seen a little boy climb to the parapet of the 
bridge over the Serpentine, and start to walk across on 
it. When he was half-way across, a lady, his mother 
of course, came along the footpath and saw him. She 
stifled a little scream with her hands, and hid behind 
the bushes that the boy might not see her and lose his 
nerve. She remembered the agony of terror that 
woman had suffered. When the boy had got safe 
across the mother had scolded him. 

If it had been her boy, she would not have scolded 
him. She would have been too proud of his daring to 


A New Joy 


191 

scold. But it would have been very dreadful to think 
of his ever doing it again. Perhaps she would have 
said : “ Well, dear boy, I ’m glad you ’ve done it once, 
just to show that you are brave ; but now you ’ve done 
it once, you need never do it again, need you ? ” That 
would not be scolding. She would try never to scold, 
nor forbid her boy to do things. That would only 
make a spirited boy do them and not tell her. She 
did n’t care very much to have him obedient ; she 
wanted him to judge for himself. When he came to 
her and said, “ Mother, dear, may I do so and so ? ” 
she would say, “ Well, dear boy, what do you think 
about it yourself? ” Of course now and again there 
would come a matter which he could not decide for 
himself, or even understand. Then he would trust 
her, because he would know she was never unreason- 
able or arbitrary. Children are very just. 

She remembered once, when she had been staying at 
Marlow, she had passed an open window just as two 
little boys ran up to it and called into the room within : 

“ Mother, may we go with Jack to fish at the lock ? ” 
and a voice from within had answered, “ No, dears ; 
you know I don’t like you to go to the lock.” 

The two boys were very disappointed. They looked 
at each other dolefully ; they were not cross over their 
disappointment, but surprised. Presently, an idea oc- 
curred to one of them, the biggest, and he turned to 
the window again. 


192 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ But, mother, I said, might we go with Jack? ” 

“ Oh,” said the voice inside, “ that ’s all right, then. 
I did n’t hear that Jack was going. Run away with 
you.” 

That was altogether pretty ; everyone concerned in 
the story was nice. The boys, who knew there must 
be some mistake if their mother seemed to refuse them 
a reasonable pleasure, the mother who had brought 
about that knowledge, and trustworthy Jack. Jack 
could swim, of course, and the mother knew her boys 
were safe while he was responsible for them. Jack was 
a big boy, probably ; but he had been like the others 
when he was little, and they would grow up like him. 
Her boy would be like all the three. 

She remembered once how, turning a corner in a 
great hurry to catch a train, she had thrown down a 
little boy who was running the contrary way. She 
had helped him up quickly, but he was hurt and 
breathless, and had to struggle heroically to keep from 
crying. She had been very sorry, and said so, asking 
if she had hurt him very much. He had looked up at 
her, his little face twisted into the oddest grimaces to 
keep back his tears, and gasped out : 

“ Well, it does hurt ; but I don’t mind when — when 
it ’s people like you.” 

That was a dear boy. She loved him in her memory. 
Her son would be a little like him too. 

Then there was that nice, naughty boy — a 


A New Joy 


193 


mischievous, dark-eyed scamp. He was teasing a girl 
beside the round pond in Kensington Gardens. He 
had taken a stick from her, and the little girl, too 
angry to beg for it back again, was standing helpless 
and tearful. Suddenly another boy, fantastically 
dressed, a typical “ mother’s darling,” dashed to the 
rescue. He tore the stick away from the black-eyed 
scamp, and handed it with the grace of a Bayard to the 
girl. At least he only said, ” Here ’s your stick,” but 
his manner was that of a knight to the rescue. Then 
he flew back to the first boy, intent on avenging the 
girl. There would be a fight, evidently, unless their 
respective nurses left off chattering to each other, and 
interfered. The ” mother’s darling ” seized the other 
boy by the collar and began proceedings like an Indian 
brave, by violent sarcasms. 

“Did you enjoy that very much? Was it very 

clever to bully a girl ? ” and so on, at some length. 

She did not remember the exact words of the tirade, 

but all the while it went on the dark-eyed young 

scamp, not able to free himself from the clutches of the 

avenger, was laughing into his face with humorous 

enjoyment of the whole affair — the rape of the stick, 

the rescuer’s quixoticism, and the impending fight — 

which he would certainly enjoy, even if he got the 

worst of it. And while the two looked at each other 

the small Don Quixote’s anger died out, his sarcasms 

ceased, he loosed his hold. The two stood looking 
13 


194 


The Priest’s Marriage 


each other in the face a moment or two, then they 
went away arm in arm, to get their shoes wet happily 
in the shallow water. The little girl had been righted 
and her aggressor defeated ; but that wonderful sex loy- 
alty, that instinct of sympathy between man and man, or 
boy and boy, made the aggressor and deliverer friends. 

That was why men were nicer than women — and 
nobler. That instinct of sex loyalty was the secret of 
their superiority. It was something they had which 
women lacked. That was why every woman in her 
heart knows a man is her superior, whether she will 
own it or not. Not, of course, the smaller, contempt- 
ible men who say silly things about women ; they are 
generally as jealous of each other and as spiteful as 
ordinary girls are, but men such as all these nice boys 
would grow into — such as her son would be. 

Ella had refused to know her because she thought 
her “ not quite proper ” on account of her marriage. 
Fancy a man refusing to know another man because 
he was not quite proper! Yet Eustace, who had for- 
merly disliked Ella, respected her for the stand she had 
taken. She had been a little hurt that he should do 
so, and yet she knew quite well that had another girl 
done what was as wrong in her eyes as this marriage 
had been in Ella’s, she would have acted just as Ella 
had acted. That was why she was not angry with 
Ella. And in a vague way it was why she wished so 
strongly that her child would be a son. 


A New Joy 


195 


Some day he would make some woman a wife, a very 
happy wife, someone a little stronger and cleverer than 
she was, perhaps, but good and beautiful. She would n’t 
be horrid and cruel to the woman who loved her son, as 
most mothers are. She would be so nice to her that they 
could not possibly be rivals. Perhaps her son would love 
a poor girl, not in his own position, who would worship 
him, but refuse him because she thought she was not 
good enough for him. Then her son would tell her 
all about it, and she would go to the girl and say : “ If 
you love my son well enough to give him up for his 
own sake, you are good enough for him, and you will 
be wiser to marry him for his own sake, and I have 
come to beg you to do it. ” And the girl would under- 
stand, and consent, and love her almost as much as she 
loved her son ; and they would all be happy together, 
even happier than she was now, happier even than she 
would be in that moment when they would put her 
little helpless son into her arms for the first time, and, 
like the woman in the parable, she would ‘ ‘ remember 
no more her anguish, for joy that a man was born into 
the world.” She was glad she had lived, glad she was 
married, glad most of all that she was to be a mother. 

She was a mother already. That was what was so 
wonderful. She was a mother already, and her son’s 
life was in her care. She remembered things she had 
read and heard. If she gave way to temper, or fretful- 
ness, or fits of depression, her son would suffer. If she 


196 


The Priest’s Marriage 


let herself get ill or frightened, he would be less strong 
and brave. It was a pity she had n’t known sooner. 
Perhaps, if she had known sooner, she would n’t have 
been restless and wanted that holiday from marriage. 
And yet she was glad she had had it — that one day 
snatched back from girlhood. Yes, before that she had 
certainly not been herself. She had been irritated 
with Eustace and puzzled about life. That day had 
cleared away all the foolish fancies. She would n’t 
have liked her knowledge of this new joy to have come 
among them. Everything was as it should be. She 
must be very careful. Her son would never know of 
it, but all these pleasant thoughts and pleasant memo- 
ries that had been drifting through her heart would 
benefit him. It would be better for him that she was 
glad he was coming. So she slipped out of her chair, 
and, resting her face on her hands, thanked God from 
the very depths of her heart. 

Presently she heard the hall door opening, and in 
her pre-occupation was not sure whether the bell had 
rung or not. She half hoped her husband had re- 
turned. 

But there were two sets of steps on the stairs, and 
presently the servant announced Dick. 

Dick noted her flushed face and shining eyes, and 
smiled, pleased that she was pleased about something. 

‘ ‘ Is Eustace back, or coming back ? ” he asked. 

“ No, I haven’t heard from him.” 


A New Joy 


197 


She stopped short. Eustace had been away for 
quite a fortnight. He had certainly needed a change 
for some time previously, but still he might have writ- 
ten to her. However, everything would be much nicer 
now. Married people were never really happy until 
they had children. She had always heard and read 
this, and what everyone believes is generally truer than 
one would expect. Dick was looking at her with his 
invariable friendly interest. She would have liked to 
tell him how happy she was, but that was impossible, 
of course. There was another woman who would be 
the only one who would have the right to speak to 
Dick of such happiness as this. And Ella would not 
think it a happiness, she would think it a nuisance. 
She had often said so, and had certainly meant what 
she said. There was a curious pain in the thought of 
all this, but she was angry with herself for feeling it. 
She had no right to expect to stand first with both 
husband and friend. Then, somehow, she became 
aware that Dick knew. She raised her eyes and met 
his. They were very kind and a little pitiful. He 
touched her hand gently, as he had done many a time 
when she had a headache or neuralgia. 

“ Poor little girl ! ” he said. 

And then she understood the wonderful pity and 
reverence brave and strong men feel for a woman when 
she is going down alone to the very gates of death for 
love’s sake. She would have liked to tell him that she 


198 


The Priest’s Marriage 


was not afraid, but only very glad and proud, but of 
course, Eustace must bear that first ; so they sat silent 
a little. 

“ Do you know,” Annie said at length, ” that all 
this time I have never asked you to tell me about 
mother, and I want to know very much? You said, 
you know, that you should n’t mind talking about it, 
and yet it must have been dreadful for you. ’ ’ 

“ No, there was nothing dreadful. Put that quite 
out of your mind. It was the sort of death we, every 
one of us, would choose if we could. It was sudden, 
certainly, but she knew what was happening, and was 
quite content that it should happen.” 

” And she was n’t anxious ? ” 

“ About you ? No, certainly not. I told you that, 
you know. She was quite sure you would be happy. ’ ’ 
** And she was n’t at all frightened ? ” 

** Not in the least. The moment of death is the one 
moment when nature is kind to us. The dying are the 
only people who have no fear. They are always con- 
tent. The dear little mother died as quietly as if she 
had been going away on a visit. She would have given 
just the same instructions about taking care of you in 
her absence.” 

You are sure she was n’t afraid at all ? I don’t 
mean about me, or my marriage. But are you quite 
sure she was not afraid of — of God ? ” 

“ Quite sure. She was too good and wise for that.” 


A New Joy 


199 


“ But a good person might do wrong by accident, 
and God might be angry.” 

“ At an accident ? Oh, no, I think not. Down here 
we have a right, perhaps, to be angry when well- 
meaning people blunder, because well-meaning blun- 
derers are such a nuisance. But no one’s blunders can 
hurt God, so I should say He would not be angry.” 

She began to laugh. 

” You think so well of God, don’t you ? ” she said ; 
” and the people who really believe in Him think so 
ill of Him ! I’m sometimes afraid and miserable, but 
you talk of God as if He were so very reasonable and 
logical.” 

“I’m not sure that ’s a proof of disbelief.” 

” No, of course not ; and I don’t know why it should 
give the impression of it. Somehow, one never expects 
to hear a man talk about God at all if his clothes fit 
well. I wonder what God thinks of that ? ” 

‘ ‘ I remember your mother had the same impression, ’ ’ 
said Dick. ” It did n’t matter, did it ? ” 

” She said you had no religion, I remember. Do 
you know, if I had known you believed things, I should 
have thought it much more terrible that Kustace was 
an atheist ; and yet, lately, I have not been quite sure 
that he is.” 

At the words, which should have been hopeful, a 
curious look — that was almost fear — came into her 
face, Dick spoke quickly : 


200 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Well, your mother was not, and the fact that she 
was not, helped her. There is nothing in the memory 
of her death that need pain you, and very much that 
should be pleasant for you to remember. She was glad 
I was there, so that I could tell you how happy and 
peaceful it was ; and I was glad I was there too.” 

“ Does Ella make you go to church ? ” said Annie. 

” Now and again. She is not exacting.” 

‘ ‘ Are you glad or sorry she is such a strict church- 
woman ? Perhaps I ought not to ask you that. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t believe I have ever thought about it.” 

If he had thought of Ella’s church principles, it was 
only in relation to the piquant contrast they made with 
her gowns and her attractive worldliness. Perhaps 
Annie was thinking of the same thing. They both 
laughed with the laughter of enjoyment, not ridicule, 
without asking each other the reason. 

“ She ’ll grow out of her exaggerations,” he said. 
” You knew her well enough to know that.” 

” She won’t grow out of her feeling about my mar- 
riage,” said Annie, a little sadly. ” She is the only 
one among my friends who had any feeling against it ; 
but I dare say if I had known more people, she 
would n’t have been the only one. Do you know, 
Eustace admires her very much for thinking what she 
does — is n’t that strange? I had to tell him, you 
know — I was afraid he would be angry, but he was n’t. 
He has spoken of it once or twice since. He seems to 


A New Joy 


201 


think better of her than he ever has before, and was 
quite afraid that you would insist on her behaving dif- 
ferently. I told him how very unlikely that was. 
Dick, it will be nice for you, but it will be horrid for 
me, when you are married. ’ ’ 

Dick did not answer ; there was nothing to be said. 
It was impossible to promise anything for Ella. 

“I’m afraid I ’m not the sort of person to insist 
that anyone should do anything, ’ ’ said Dick. 

He sat watching the feelings that had been exciting 
her die out and leave her face white and quiet. He 
wondered if she were afraid. And her husband was 
away too. He was quite sure she did not even know 
where he was. 

But she did not know that she had any cause to be 
anxious about him. It could not be certain vague 
rumors, which he himself had heard, which had brought 
that strange, puzzled look of anxiety to her face. 

Now he thought of it, the rumors were scarcely worth 
anyone’s attention. Stravil when he was at home was 
loving enough, kind enough, a good fellow. The 
man’s behavior to himself proved it, except for that 
one burst of temper, which probably was merely the 
result of influenza. Lately he had made efforts to be 
agreeable — well meant, if irritating; and since the 
spring he had been really cordial, without any effort, 
apparently. If Annie was sad, it was only with that 
undefinable, inevitable sorrow that comes of being a 


202 


The Priest’s Marriage 


woman, the sorrow that a man can neither help nor 
understand. So he asked if he might be allowed to 
smoke, and they opened the window wider, and let the 
smell of the hawthorns in the Square blow softly into 
the room as they sat and talked carelessly of things that 
did not matter. 

Presently the sharp double knock of a telegram came 
in with the hawthorn scent, and next moment the 
missive was brought in. 

“ Expect me to dinner. 

“ Stravii..” 

“ I wonder what they have for dinner ! ” was 
Annie’s comment. 

“ What a model wife ! ” said Dick. 

“ Ring the bell, will you? ” said Annie ; “ I must 
make sure of dinner at once. I always think clear 
soup ’s the best thing after a journey ; it is stimulat- 
ing. A thick, heavy soup takes away one’s appetite 
when one is tired.” 

” I wonder if Ella will take so much thought for 
me ! ” said Dick as he rang. 

” I am sure she will. You will have lovely dinners : 
Ella is so clever. Excuse me a moment.” 

Dick waited while she told the servants of her hus- 
band’s return, and ordered additions to the dinner 
already provided ; then he rose to go. Five minutes 
before they had both passively taken it for granted 


A New Joy 


203 


that he should stay ; but of course he would go now. 
That was so like him ! 

She and her husband must be alone, of course, with 
this wonderful new joy. It would be a festival — the 
merriest meal they had had together yet. She went 
out on to the landing with Dick, and as he turned 
downstairs hurried into her room to put on her prettiest 
frock. 




CHAPTER XX 


mystification 


NNIE began to look for the prettiest frock that 



iv would be suitable for dining at home with her 
husband. Which should it be ? Not black, nor even 
the black and white she had been wearing lately. Her 
mother would be pleased for her to wear colors to- 
night. One of the frocks she had worn before her 
marriage would do. Fashion had not changed so much 
in one year that an evening frock would look dowdy. 
There was that white one with the little pink flowers 
on it. Eustace had liked it, and it was nearly new. 
She made Reynolds put it before a fire to get out any 
possible creases, and sent to the florist for roses. She 
meant to look her very best to-night, and then, when 
she had coaxed some of the loving words from Eustace, 
the speaking of which always made him as much hap- 
pier than he had been before as the hearing made her, 
she would tell him her news, and they would be very 
happy together. 

She had not enjoyed anything for a long time so 


204 


Mystification 


205 


much as she enjoyed dressing to please her husband 
to-night. The last rose was just fastened against her 
breast when she heard his step on the stairs. Rey- 
nolds discreetly withdrew. Annie ran out on to the 
landing to meet him. 

“ Eustace, dear, I ’m so glad you ’re home ! ” 

She stopped short, for he had passed her. He was 
not even looking at her. His hand was on his own 
dressing-room door. 

“ Eustace ! ” she cried, astonished. “ Are you not 
going to speak to me ? ” 

“I’m tired,’’ he said, coldly. “ Give me time to 
breathe ; don’t fly at me the minute I ’m inside the 
house. Go downstairs : I sha’n’t be long.’’ 

“ Eustace ! ’’ 

“ Go downstairs, I tell you,” he repeated. “ Don’t 
worry me now. ’ ’ 

He opened the door, but turned as he opened it. 
The soft light fell on her startled, white face, her eyes 
were wide open ; she looked ready to cry like a child 
from sheer dismay, but she looked very, very pretty. 

In a moment Stravil had her in his arms, kissing her 
passionately, almost savagely. She struggled against 
his hold, hurt and offended. 

“ Eustace, I don’t understand you. You spoke as 
if you were angry with me. If you are angry, don’t 
kiss me. You must not kiss me and speak as you did. 
What does it mean ? Eet me go.” 


206 


The Priest s Marriage 


“ There, I ’m sorry,” and he released her. “You 
should have gone downstairs when I bade you. It ’s 
nothing, my dear. I ’m tired and hungry and ill- 
tempered. A man always is ill-tempered when he ’s 
hungry. You have been married long enough to know 
that, I should think. ’ ’ 

Annie went down to the drawing-room and waited. 

“ Things always turn out like this when one looks 
forward too much,” she said miserably. 

She made up her mind to be very stiff and dignified 
with Eustace for a little ; he should not have cause to 
rebuke her again for being too pleased to see him. 
But when he came into the drawing-room, he looked 
so white and worn that she quite forgot her resolve. 

“I’m glad you ’re back, dear,” she said, pleasantly. 
“ Here is Edwards ; let us go to dinner, and I won’t 
worry you to tell me where you have been all this time, 
until you are half way through the fish at least. ’ ’ 

She meant to keep her word, too. It was her husband 
who spoke first. 

“ Have you been dull all this time ? ” he asked. 

“ Well, a little. The Wyndhams gave a party that 
was rather nice, and I ’ve read some new books. Dick 
has been here once or twice. He was here when your 
telegram came.” 

“ When are he and Miss Payne to be married ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I don’t think the date is fixed 
yet.” 


Mystification 


207 


“ It ’s a pity she should marry,” said Eustace. “ I 
hope he ’ll appreciate her.” 

“ I hope she will be nice to him,” said Annie. ” He 
will make such a good husband.” 

” That ’s the one criterion by which women judge 
men, I suppose,” said Eustace. 

“ Well, it ’s what concerns us most,” she answered. 

* ‘ A good husband ! That ’s all you ask. A man may 
be a bad soldier — a bad ruler — false to his honor — 
false to his convictions. What would you care if he 
satisfied your requirements ? And yet we fools of men 
get hold of the notion that you are angels — guardian 
angels, exalting us, ennobling us. The devil was very 
clever when he invented that fallacy — it makes things 
so easy for you ! ’ ’ 

“ Was it the devil ? ” asked Annie, with spirit. ” I 
thought it was men themselves. At any rate, it 
was not women. We never say we are better than 
men by nature ; we know it is wiser to try to be, 
that ’s all.” 

And then she remembered why. How God, and 
nature as God made it, had ordained that Eustace’s fit 
of temper should only vex himself and her for a mo- 
ment ; but if she were to be angry, or gloomy, or 
irritable, the man who was to take his life from 
hers would suffer. And at the thought, all her re- 
sentment was gone. Her face changed from pale to 
red, her eyes softened and darkened with tenderness. 


2o8 


The Priest’s Marriage 


She turned to her husband, stretching her arm along 
the table till the tips of her fingers could just touch 
his hand. 

“ Don’t let ’s be cross with each other, dear,” she 
said. ” I am going to make you so happy! There is 
something — something ” 

Her voice died away. Her husband was staring at 
her with eyes in which some evil she could not under- 
stand struggled with intense revulsion. 

” Cover your flesh I ” he cried. ” Take a hand- 
kerchief — your serviette, anything — take your hand 
away — sit up ’ ’ 

” Eustace! ” 

She cried the name under her breath, shrinking back 
into her seat, overwhelmed with shame. That a man 
should speak to her so — any man ! But her husband ! 
She could not answer. 

The servant re-entered with the next course. Her 
husband refused it, so did she. She sat silent, her face 
set and her eyes bent on the bowl of flowers before her. 
She would not look at her husband. 

Her flesh ! Never in all her life had she thought of 
her pretty, soft neck and arms by such a word. Never, 
never, had she uncovered them for any reason but be- 
cause it was usual. They were pretty ; she had known 
that and been glad. She had been glad to be pretty, 
just as she had been glad to be healthy. Was there 
any harm in that ? Any harm such as her husband’s 


Mystification 


209 


face had suggested? She felt herself shivering, and 
found her voice at last. 

“ Tell Reynolds to bring me a wrap,” she said to the 
servant. “ I am cold.” 

Edwards left the room, and, returning, lit the gas- 
stove and turned it up so high that a red glow over- 
powered the lamps. She watched it seeming to warm 
the silver embossing of the bowl before her and the 
green leaves of the flowers in it, checking an impulse 
to hide her eyes from the glare of it with her hands. 
Reynolds came with the wrap. It seemed absurdly 
appropriate that she should bring a black one. She 
half rose for Reynolds to throw the cloak over her 
shoulders, and noticed that her husband was watching 
her keenly until all the white and pink except her 
white face and little trembling hands were hidden in- 
side the black drapery. Then his eyes fell. She rose 
to her feet. 

“ I think I ’m not very well, Eustace. I shall have 
to ask you to excuse me. Send coffee upstairs to me, 
Edwards, and be sure it is very hot. It ’s cold to- 
night.” 

She went to her room and sat there shivering, hud- 
dled up in her black wrap. Reynolds came with her 
coffee, asking if she should remain, and was curtly dis- 
missed to her supper. 

What did it all mean ? Had she ever been immodest 
in her love ? Ever ? Had she ever dressed, even by 


14 


210 


The Priest’s Marriage 


accident, as Ella did, or acted after the manner of some 
others she had seen, or heard of ? If so, surely Eus- 
tace, who loved her, should have known it had been 
by accident. Some people, she knew, objected to eve- 
ning dress — common, middle-class people — people who 
go to the theatre in a high bodice with a bunch of 
flowers pinned somewhere about them. But the gen- 
eral feeling of all the nice people she knew was to take 
evening dress as a matter of course. She had dressed 
to look nice at parties, so that she might be asked to 
dance often, and not be a failure and a discredit and 
anxiety to good-natured Mrs. Bailey, who took her 
about. Oh, yes — she had been very anxious to look 
nice. She had always shown herself to her mother, 
and sometimes to Dick, to make sure she did. And 
she would have been disappointed if they had not been 
satisfied with her appearance ; but that was only be- 
cause she knew that the nicer she looked the pleasanter 
her evening would be. Things were like that. There 
was no harm in it. 

She tried unconsciously to convict herself of some 
fault, so as to make it easier to forgive Eustace ; but it 
was no use. She had never consciously been immodest. 
Still Eustace was tired and cross to-night, and looked 
very ill indeed. Nothing that he said ought to count. 
He had pleaded that with her once when he had been 
ill before. She was making an absurd fuss about a 
trifle. She rose and began to laugh, and, going to the 


Mystification 


21 I 


glass to take down her hair, saw her pretty frock re- 
flected before her, and approved of it. She called her- 
self a few hard names for being silly, and crept into bed 
laughing. 

But presently the laughter began to change into 
sobs. There was evil in the world. She had known 
it always, and been reminded often ; only, somehow, 
she could not keep on remembering it ; it had a way 
of slipping out of her mind, so that she spoke and acted 
without considering it at all. There were coarse 
things, and coarse people — hateful-minded girls, and 
hateful-minded wives, even — and Eustace had con- 
founded her with these. Very possibly it was her own 
fault. She tried hard to see how, but she could not. 
That proved nothing ; people never can see when they 
are in the wrong themselves. He had not known what 
it was that excited her, why she had wanted him to be 
specially loving and gentle. She could not remember 
what she had said, but somehow she had given a wrong 
impression. She had been like a stupid, chattering 
child, saying the wrong thing. A wife ought n’t to be 
a stupid child. There must be no more of it. This 
beautiful knowledge she still held secret must be shared 
with him. He would be as happy as she when she had 
spoken. She would tell him directly he came upstairs, 
and he would be sorry that he had been so unkind. 

He seemed a very long while coming. She began to 
feel worn out with crying and waiting. It was silly to 


212 


The Priest s Marriage 


cry so much. Well, — and a little bitterness mingled 
with her desire for peace for half a second, — well, at 
any rate, she must be so ugly now that she could 
offend no one. She put her hand to her eyes to feel 
how swollen and inflamed they were, listening still for 
her husband’s step on the stair. 

When at last she heard it, it stopped at the door of 
her boudoir. He seemed to be going in — yes — she 
heard the door creak as he opened it. 

That was good. He was thinking of her; perhaps 
he was sorry already, and was looking for her to tell 
her so. He was coming up now to his own dressing- 
room. She lay and waited. Now she had stopped 
being miserable. It began to be very hard to keep 
awake ; but, of course, she must not go to sleep until 
she and her husband had spoken together. 

The lamp was out. She must have been asleep after 
all. She stretched out her hand ; her husband was not 
with her. There was no smell of smoke in the room, 
so the lamp must have burnt out some time ago. She 
listened. She could not hear him moving in the next 
room, but she could hear every now and then a low 
murmur as if he were talking to himself — and yet not 
talking exactly : murmuring, moaning almost. What 
was the matter ? Had he fallen and hurt himself ? 
Was he ill ? Surely, in either case, he would have 
called to her. She raised herself, listening still more 
intently, and feeling quite absurdly frightened and 


Mystification 


213 


unnerved. A clock somewhere struck two, and she 
started. It had been quite early when her husband 
had come upstairs. Perhaps he had fallen asleep, still 
angry with her, and because he was angry was as 
miserable as she. That was why he moaned and mut- 
tered in his sleep. 

She must go and put things right at once, and beg 
him to think more nobly of his wife, now she was his 
child’s mother. 

She opened the door softly. There was a little 
moonlight in the next room, and she could see her 
husband. He was resting against the low window- 
ledge, with his head bent towards it. He was not 
moaning, but speaking with rapid monotony words of 
which she did not catch the meaning. Praying ? She 
loved him for it. She had been praying to-day. He 
did not hear her enter. She crossed the room and laid 
a hand on his shoulder. 

“ Kustace, what is the matter? are you ill, or wor- 
ried ? Come and listen to me. I want to tell you 
something that will please you very much.” 

He turned, trying to draw his shoulder from her 
touch. The moment she saw his face, she knew it was 
not illness nor any ordinary trouble that had kept him 
away from her. She would not loose her hold. 

” Kustace, Kustace, dear, don’t let anything spoil 
our love for each other ! We must love each other 
more than ever. Don’t look at me like that, dear — 


214 The Priest’s Marriage 

love me ! There ’s a reason — it is something beauti- 
ful.” 

‘ ‘ Beautiful ! — love you — ’ ’ He had caught but the 
two words. His eyes frightened her : he seemed mad 
— and she could not tell if it was with love or hate. 
Next instant, with a furious movement of his hand, he 
thrust her from him, speaking two words only. 

The one was ‘ ‘ Go, ’ ’ and the other ? She had heard 
it before in church. Christ was the only one who ever 
spoke it kindly. No woman can hear it without a 
scorching sense of shame in her heart. She drew back 
with a cry. Something hard in her husband’s hand 
had struck her on the breast when he pushed her from 
him. But the word hurt most ; it was the word that 
had made her cry out. 

She crept back to her bed, hiding her face from the 
very darkness. 




CHAPTER XXI 


FACING THF BI,AST 



HEN Annie woke next morning it was to the 


consciousness that she was very unhappy, and 


to that dull feeling that follows a miserable night : as 
if she not only always would be, but always had been, 
miserable. Everything pleasant in the past was blotted 
out by last night’s trouble, and of course after it there 
could be no future. 

Reynolds stood beside her bed with a breakfast tray. 
Reynolds was a pretty, fresh, black-and-white girl, 
whose caps always seemed fresher and whiter in the 
morning than any other servant’s caps. Being un- 
usually tactful, she looked at the worn, haggard little 
face of her mistress as placidly as if she saw nothing 
amiss there, and made no stupid excuses of “ I ’m 
afraid you ’ve had a bad night, ma’am.” 

Presently, when Annie had drunk her tea, she said 
that her mistress had been sleeping so heavily that she 
thought it better not to wake her, since the master had 
breakfasted early and gone out. 


2i6 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Annie felt intensely relieved. At least, she would 
not have to see Eustace while she was still weak and 
worn out. She would have time to collect herself and 
be reasonable, and not make matters worse by saying 
the wrong thing. Of course Reynolds knew there was 
trouble of some sort ; servants always knew when 
things went wrong in a house. They would all be 
sorry for her; but they were nice, well-trained servants, 
and would n’t show it. 

She told Reynolds that she was tired, and would not 
get up until luncheon. And as the maid left she 
laughed at herself a little bitterly. 

How she had always despised people who went to 
bed because they were miserable! And yet it was 
quite the wisest thing to do. What everybody does 
generally turns out to be the right thing when one 
understands it. One can hide in bed until one’s face 
tells no tales, and until one has thought out what to 
do. Even if Eustace were to come in, Reynolds would 
tell him she was asleep and must not be disturbed, 
whereas if she went downstairs she might have to see 
him. 

After a long sleep and a careful toilet and luncheon, 
Annie was more herself again. Last night’s trouble 
loosed its grip on her heart, and only stood in the back- 
ground threatening. To escape it, she would go to the 
Baileys’ . There were a lot of girls staying in the house, 
most likely, for there had been a dance somewhere the 


Facing the Blast 


2 I 7 

night before. She would go and gossip and be light- 
hearted and silly and irresponsible with them. She 
would go early and catch them in the lounging- hour 
between luncheon and afternoon engagements. 

She was shown into the drawing-room, which was 
empty. The servant said she was not quite sure 
whether anyone was at home, but would inquire. 
Annie knew what that meant quite well. Mrs. Bailey 
was asleep, and the girls were all lying about upstairs 
with their hair down and their shoes off. In the old 
days she would have run straight upstairs as a matter 
of course. Now she was treated as “ a visitor.” She 
rebelled, and running upstairs unannounced, ham- 
mered at the bedroom door. 

” Let me in, girls : I ’ve come for a holiday.” 

There was a confused babble of welcome, and the 
door was opened. It was all just as she expected. 
The room seemed a chaos of pretty faces and loose hair 
and frilled petticoats, and neat feet displayed on chairs 
or on the foot of the bed. 

A tall girl was looking disconsolately at a pair of 
yellow satin shoes on her knees ; she was nursing them 
with much show of affection. 

” I shall never be able to wear them again,” she 
said. ” I ’ve danced myself permanently into the next 
size.” 

” You should have worn the next size to start with,” 
said Beatrice. “ The difference between threes and 


2i8 


The Priest s Marriage 


fours looks a good deal in the shops, but it ’s never 
noticed when one wears them ; but everyone notices 
the difference between a tight-shoed walk and a natural 
one.” 

“ George told her that,” said Kffie. ” Fancy being 
engaged to a man who talks to you for your good ! 
One might as well marry a widower, or a man with a 
beard, at once.” 

‘ ‘ Did the curate talk to you for your good ? ’ ’ asked 
the dull girl of last year, who had now so far got over 
her shyness as to be habitually tiresome. 

” The curate ” was still a painful subject, for he had 
consoled himself very rapidly indeed for Efiie’s deser- 
tion, and nothing hurts a girl’s feelings much more 
than that. 

The tall girl came to the rescue. She was a nice, 
soothing girl with a pleasant voice. 

” I think it ’s so nice of some girls to marry curates, 
because then other girls don’t have to ! ” 

“No one has to,” said Beatrice. 

“ Oh, yes, they have — if it ’s a curate or no one. 
And don’t you see, if a girl marries a curate, she leaves 
another man free.” 

“ Not if it ’s a curate or no one,” said Effie. “ And 
it mostly is among the sort of people who marry curates. 
That is why it is so horrid to be beastly middle class, as 
we are. Common women are all right. No one poaches 
among their men. But smart people, when they ’ve 


Facing the Blast 


219 


got a daughter too stupid, or too plain, or too old to 
marry in her own set, swoop down and snatch up one 
of our middle-class men for her. lyike Lady Mary and 
Mr. Caine, you know. Now we can’t do that. The 
difference between an earl and a barrister with relations 
in the peerage does n’t matter much. But the differ- 
ence between the barrister and a ’busman can’t be 
ignored. That ’s why all the old maids are in the 
middle class. They can’t marry the ’busmen, and the 
barristers have been snatched up for peerage failures.” 

“You have thought such a great deal about mar- 
riage,” said Annie, doubtfully. 

“ Whatever else was there to think about,” cried 
Kffie, “ when I ’d left school and was n’t used to 
having nothing to do ? You don’t suppose I want to 
be married really, do you ? But I know that the sooner 
I do the more of a success I am. What we would all 
of us really like would be to never think of it, but just 
go on having a good time, till we met someone we 
could n’t help liking tremendously. As you did, you 
know. Only everyone is n’t lucky enough to have 
that come so soon. Of course, if one were sure it 
would come some time, one would wait ; but one is not 
sure, and while one is waiting dreadful things happen 
to one’s complexion.” 

“ Ella waited a good long time, and it came,” said 
Dolly, the shy girl of last year, who had developed 
into gentle optimism. 


2 20 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“Yes, just when she had begun to get anxious about 
her complexion, ’ ’ said her sister. 

“ That ’s such a susceptible time,” said Kffie. “ It 
answers to baldness in a man. Have you noticed that 
when a man begins to be bald he always grows a little 
sentimental ? ’ ’ 

“ But you are wrong about Ella, Kffie,” the tall girl 
said. “ She ’s not in the least in love with Mr. 
Archer. She only thought he would do pretty well 
when she found the Hoxton young man would n’t. 
She makes him go to the dances with her, and dances 
with him a great many times, but she used to sit out 
with Mark Scarsdale.” 

‘ ‘ Mark Scarsdale dances very badly, ’ ’ said Annie, 
quickly. 

“ That would account for her sitting out with Mark 
Scarsdale, but not for her not sitting out with Mr. 
Archer,” said the tall girl. 

There was a little pause. Kffie broke it, of course. 

“To go back to what we were saying just now, 
about girls wanting to be married. ’ ’ 

“ If we did n’t, men could n’t be,” the tall girl inter- 
rupted. “ And where should we all be then ? ” 

“ There ’s really nothing else for us middle-class girls 
to do,” continued Kffie. “ It ’s our victory, our M.A. 
degree, our biggest score at cricket. It is n’t the 
stupid man we care about : it ’s scoring off the other 
girls. It would be different if one had something else 


Facing the Blast 


221 


to do, but one has n’t. In the country it ’s quite ex- 
citing. When there is only one man among fifteen 
girls, of course they run after him ; so they would if he 
were a blue china vase. Of course they all run after 
him, all run — and ‘ but one receiveth the crown,’ as 
St. Paul says. It ’s the success we want, not the man ; 
only the man does n’t know it.” 

“ That ’s what ’s so funny about men,” said the tall 
girl. “ If one of us happens to be one among many 
men, we know we are fussed and flattered just because 
we are the only one. Men never do. They take all 
the fuss seriously. That ’s why their heads get turned. 
We can stand much more of flattery than men, because 
we believe it much less.” 

“ But they do believe it ; that ’s what ’s so funny,” 
said Kffie. “ They believe the nonsense they say to 
us, and we know quite well it ’s nonsense. We don’t 
believe the things we say to please them, and they ac- 
cept them solemnly as truths. Now, why is that ? ” 

“ I ’m afraid it ’s because we are wiser than they 
are,” said Beatrice, gloomily. ” I did n’t want to be- 
lieve that ; it ’s so unsettling ; but one has to when 
one grows older. We talk very foolishly w^hen we ’re 
young, but we have to be wiser than they are in the 
end.” 

” That ’s why we don’t marry models, and waiters, 
and landladies’ sons, and things, as they do, I suppose,” 
said the tall girl. 


22 2 The Priest’s Marriage 

“ I wonder if that is the reason why we don’t ? ” said 
the shy girl. 

At this moment Mrs. Bailey entered, and exclaimed, 
on seeing Annie : 

“ You here, my dear, with all these chattering girls? 
Come downstairs with me, and we will have our tea in 
quiet. ’ ’ 

Annie rose with a feeling of relief. She was almost 
the youngest present, and yet she was not one of the 
girls any more. She felt a foreigner among them. 
Formerly she could have talked with the girls more 
easily than with Mrs. Bailey. All their talk had been 
of marriage. They had owned there was really nothing 
else to talk about. It was everything to them, — their 
whole career. And though their talk had not been 
unintelligent, it had been entirely ignorant. No man, 
not even the best, can realize the completeness of even 
a vulgar and silly girl’s ignorance. She may know 
mere words, but they mean nothing to her ; so she lays 
herself open to blame. Annie understood now why 
Eustace disliked the Baileys. Formerly she had not 
known — when she, too, was a girl ; she was not a girl 
any more. Marriage had made a great gulf between 
them and her, just as marriage had bridged over the 
difference of years between her and their mother. She 
dropped into an easy-chair in the drawing-room and 
talked about nice, dull, unemotional, household mat- 
ters. Presently the elder woman’s experience guessed 


Facing the Blast 


223 


at her secret, and she spoke kindly and cheerfully 
about it, and congratulated her, and petted her, and 
made much of her. 

“ When do you expect Eustace back ? ” she asked, 
presently. 

“ Oh, he is back. He came back last night.” 

“ He is very pleased, of course ? ” 

” He does n’t know yet.” 

And suddenly the knowledge of why he did not know 
came back to her. Why he did not know, and why she 
had been glad to miss him this morning. She was 
ashamed, and terribly ashamed of her shame. She 
had not felt it as she stood before the crucifix, nor be- 
fore the pure face of the white Venus. No, nor even 
when Dick had looked in her eyes and been sorry for 
her. Nor yet among the chatter of the girls upstairs. 
But the moment she thought of Eustace, the sense of 
shame returned. 

” Oh, my dear ! ” Mrs. Bailey was saying. ” You 
ought to have told him. ’ ’ 

She made an effort, and laughed pleasantly. 

” He was very tired and hungry after his journey. 
I am going to tell him this evening.” 

” How pleased your mother would have been ! ” said 
Mrs. Bailey. 

And then the longing for the old life and the old 
thoughts grew insupportable. The sound of laughter, 
as the girls trooped downstairs into the hall, hurt 


224 


The Priest’s Marriage 


terribly. Mrs. Bailey patted her shoulder with pleasant 
elderly misconception as she went out to her carriage. 

‘ ‘ There, there, my dear ; we all miss our mothers 
when this time comes to us. But you were always a 
good daughter. You have nothing to reproach your- 
self with. That ought to be a comfort to you.” 

It was very small comfort. If she had not been a 
good daughter, her mother would have forgiven her 
by now — comforted by the sweetness of death for every 
little wound she had ever suffered. But she was 
ashamed of God’s good gift, of nature’s kindliest 
triumph, and there was no comfort for that. 

In marrying Eustace she had braved a certain 
amount of reprobation. She had not known this at 
the time, because, in her simple, narrow-minded, good 
little mother’s view, anyone who left the Romish 
Church, from any cause whatsoever, was a brand 
snatched from the burning. She ought to have known 
what she was doing. She had been twenty-two. But 
then it is not much use being twenty-two if, in the 
years between that age and seventeen, one has learned 
nothing of life or the other people in the world. She 
did not admit for a moment that if she had been wiser, 
she would not have married Eustace. She had be- 
lieved, and still believed, that he was as free to marry 
as any other man. But she saw that if she had been 
less ignorant, she would have known better how to 
deal with him. 


Facing the Blast 


225 


He had asked her once, in the early days of this 
married life, whether, if she had had to choose between 
him and all the rest of the world, she would have 
chosen him. And she had answered that she had 
chosen him in marrying him. It was truer than she 
had known at the time. He and she were, in a meas- 
ure, outcasts. Only the people who ‘ ‘ did not care ’ ’ 
would tolerate what they had done. Even Dick was 
marrying a woman who would not know her. 

But all this did not matter so long as her husband 
did not fail her. But if he came to think her an out- 
cast too — It must not be. She must not let him fail 
her. There must be no quarrelling, no reproaches — 
she could not afford them. She must be gentle and 
patient, tell him what was in store for them both, and 
ask to be held in some honor as a wife and mother. 

She leaned back wearily in her seat, almost too tired 
to feel at all. Clenching her hands against her breast, 
she was dimly conscious of some physical pain there, 
and, slipping her hand inside her frock, noticed a long 
purple bruise. It was where her husband had struck 
her last night. 

IS 





CHAPTER XXII 

AN EMISSARY OF KVII. 

W HEN Annie reached home she was met with the 
news that a visitor awaited her — a Mr. Car- 
lisle. He had come immediately after she left, and 
waited all through the afternoon. She knew the 
name, and went straight into the room where he 
waited. 

Annie had always considered that her husband and 
Dick were the two best-looking men she had ever met ; 
but this visitor surpassed them both. He was more 
than good looking. He was intensely beautiful, with 
a beauty so exalted and spiritualized that it was almost 
painful to look upon. It was a face that had possibly 
been frankly and happily animal at the first ; but 
everything animal, everything human almost, had 
been, so to speak, disciplined and prayed out of it. It 
was like that wonderful bust of the monk dug up in 
some garden at Rome. A face that reminded one 
irresistibly of the prayer of Saint Augustine, in which, 
remembering his many penances with regret, he had 
226 


An Emissary of Evil 


227 


prayed that he might be forgiven for cruelty done to a 
man, even though the man was himself. It was im- 
possible not to know that such a man had come on a 
painful errand, and had come willingly because it was 
painful. 

“You have been waiting a long time, they tell me,” 
she said. 

“ I was here to wait till you should come.” 

“You have called to see my husband, perhaps — 
he — ” she stopped, faltering — she knew that was not 
so — that he had come to see her. She knew what he 
had come to tell her. She had been blind all this 
while, but now the blindness was lost in a sudden hor- 
rible keenness of vision. She remembered how Eustace 
had called the happy death of her good mother a “ co- 
incidence,” and meant that it was a judgment — his 
protest against the Venus in her room, the flowers be- 
fore the crucifix, his intermittent, capricious fasting, 
everything down to the horrible events of last night. 
She stood staring at the messenger of evil, afraid to 
speak. 

“You expected it, then ? ” he said. 

“ You have brought me some message from my hus- 
band ? ” 

She heard her own voice distinctly, as if it did not 
belong to her. A look of pity rose in the priest’s face, 
but did not lessen its austerity, or make it more 
human. 


228 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ You must prepare yourself for very great pain.” 

” Speak, please ! ” 

” You were aware from the first that Eustace Stravil 
was not free to marry ? ” 

‘ ‘ I say he was free ! ’ ’ 

She spoke passionately — almost in a cry. The priest 
bowed and stood silent. He was not there to argue. 

“ Goon,” she said, growing quiet again. ” Don’t 
question me. Tell me what you have to say.” 

“ Eustace Stravil has repented of his apostacy. He 
is at present on his way to a religious house abroad, 
which he will enter finally, at the proper time.” 

She had known it quite well from the moment she 
had seen the face of the messenger. Again she heard 
her voice, unnaturally quiet and steady, as she an- 
swered. 

” And he told me he had given you up,” she said. 

The man’s face glowed with spiritual tenderness. 

‘ ‘ But I had not given him up, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ I fought 
for him against himself. ’ ’ 

She gave a little cry, and, turning away, walked 
across the room and back, struggling with hopelessly 
convincing memories of her husband’s words and man- 
ner. Trifles — trifles all ; but they might have taught 
her what it was that she had been fearing, half uncon- 
sciously, all this time, if she had not been blind. She 
turned abruptly. 

” How long has this been going on ? ” 


An Emissary of Evil 


229 


His face lit with splendid enthusiasm. 

‘ ‘ By the grace of God, ever since his so-called mar- 
riage,” he said. ” From the very beginning of his 
temptation and fall the grace of God was working in 
him to this end.” 

“You mean you were working,” she said. ” This 
is your doing. From the first day you found my hus- 
band again, and began to influence him, he grew bitter 
and contemptuous of me. You have made him do 
this.” 

” Madam,” and he spoke with the genuine regret 
of a just man who puts away praise he has no right to 
accept ; ” Madam, I wish from my heart that I need 
not deny what you say ; but it was not so.” 

” How then ? ” 

” Think again.” 

She thought again of his attitude on her mother’s 
death, and towards the crucifix, the impression that 
the story of the twelve crowns created, the impulse to 
observe fast days. She understood what had hap- 
pened, and when it had been happening, but not why. 

“You understand?” The austere face was one 
flame of unselfish enthusiasm. It frightened her. 

“ No, I don’t understand at all.” 

“It was yourself ! I may have helped. I tried my 
best ; but it was you — your purity, your belief — mis- 
taken belief, but sincere — your blind testimony to the 
truth in which he had lost faith. Oh, madam, God 


230 


The Priest’s Marriage 


has been good to you ! If you were the cause of this 
man’s sin, you have been God’s instrument in bringing 
him back to the grace he had lost.” 

” I can’t believe it ! ” she cried. ” It is too horrible, 
too unjust ! God would not do such a cruel thing — not 
to save ten men’s souls.” 

” My child,” said the priest, ” some day you will 
understand that if God broke ten thousand mortal 
hearts to save one immortal soul, the loss were as 
nothing counted against the gain. The man you 
called your husband— no, I will say the man you truly 
believe to be your husband — has found this truth at 
last.” 

“ Why did n’t he tell me sooner ? ” she cried. 

“Was not his part hard enough ? ” 

“ I would not have tried to keep him if he wanted to 
go.” 

The priest smiled a little, as if he neither believed 
her nor felt any surprise she should say what was not 
true. 

“ Then will you not rejoice that he has gone ? ” he 
said. 

“ No. It was wrong and wicked of him. No one 
ever pleased God by breaking promises.” 

* ‘ His first promise was to God. ’ ’ 

“ God never asked for that promise. There is n’t a 
word in the Bible, from beginning to end, forbidding 
priests to marry, or I would n’t have married him.” 


An Emissary of Evil 


231 


Again the priest bowed, refusing to argue. He was 
right. What good would it do her to prove her case 
twenty times over to him, even if it were possible to 
prove it at all ? 

“ But, why did he come back ? ” she cried. “ Why 
did he come back to me last night ?” 

“ That was wrong. It was cruel to you, and a dan- 
ger to himself. I tried to dissuade him from it. He 
said he could never be sure of himself if he did not. It 
was his Gethsemane. I was praying for him all the 
while.” 

“ Did you think of me at all ? Did n’t God think 
of me ? ” 

“ My child, I did not forget. I prayed that you 
might be consoled in your trouble. And God will not 
forget his chosen instrument.” 

“ I had been praying, too,” she said. “ I had been 
thanking God all day for my child that was coming.” 

The words were said involuntarily, and half to her- 
self. She did not know that the priest was thrown a 
little off his guard by them. It was something he had 
not reckoned with. 

“ Did he know this ? ” he asked. 

“ No. I went to tell him, but he struck me, and 
pushed me from him. I don’t know if you will tell 
him — ” She stopped short, catching her breath and 
her face turning scarlet with the memory of last night. 
If she had been watching the priest, she would have 


232 


The Priest’s Marriage 


known by the involuntary compression of his lips at 
the question that he would not tell Stravil of this. 
“ But if you do,” she continued, ” tell him it was only 
to let him know that I had come. Because I thought 
it such a beautiful and sacred thing. Love has never 
been quite the same for him as for me. I always 
thought love quite a good thing. But I must see him 
and tell him this myself. Where is he ? ” 

“ I must not tell you that. I gave him my word I 
would not. It rests with him to do so. ” 

“ Will he tell me ? ” 

“You will certainly have word from him.” 

“ But will he tell me where he is ? ” 

“ I must answer you frankly,” said the priest. “ I 
hope not. For the present it will be better if he does 
not.” 

“ But you know. He has sent you here to break it 
to me. Perhaps he told you to be gentle — well — you 
have been gentle in your way ; but tell me the truth.” 

He looked at her with the same abstract and exalted 
pity that he had shown before, and answered her out- 
right. 

“ If God gives him grace to hold his present purpose, 
you will never see him again. ’ ’ 

There was a pause — a long pause. Then the priest 
resumed : 

“ Business communications can be made through Mr. 
Stravil’s solicitors. They have moved, I understand. 


An Emissary of Evil 


233 


The address is — ” he hesitated ; he had forgotten, and 
looked at a slip of paper in his hand. 

She held out her hand without speaking. He bowed 
and gave it to her. It was in Eustace’s hand, and 
contained nothing but the new address of the solicitors. 
It seemed the visible confirmation of all the priest had 
told her — that Eustace had written this for her with 
no word of farewell. She folded the paper quietly and 
laid it on the mantelpiece. 

“ Well, you have told me,” she said. “You have 
done your work, and told me that it is done. Will you 
go now ? You said that some day I should come to 
thank God for this. I say, I hope some day you will 
come to ask God to forgive you your share in it.” 




CHAPTER XXIII 

FOR THK RIGHT 

I T was some time before the truth as to Annie’s posi- 
tion leaked out among her friends. But, of course, 
it was inevitable that it should become known sooner 
or later, and that it should be discussed as a topic of 
interest, and dropped as exhausted long before she 
knew that it was even suspected. Naturally, she re- 
ceived a good deal of pity, both of the sort that stings 
and the sort that merely irritates. There was a little 
laughter from some few who utterly disbelieved the 
story that Stravil had gone into a religious house of 
any kind. It had not been for religion, they said, that 
Stravil had neglected his wife during those frequent 
absences of his. Still most of those who knew the story 
were sorry, and would have said so had not the same 
good feeling that made them sorry prevented their 
obtruding their sympathy. 

Ella heard the story from Mrs. Bailey, and Dick 
found her in a fury of indignation over it. 

“It ’s infamous ! ’’ she cried. “ The man ’s a 


234 


For the Right 


235 


renegade twice over. If he could n’t be true to his 
church, he might, at least, be true to his wife.” 

“You see, he had come to agree with you, my dear, 
that she was not his wife,” Dick answered. But the 
sarcasm fell unnoticed into the fire of Ella’s indignation. 

“ The more reason to keep faith with her,” she 
cried. “ If he could n’t be a priest, he might, at least, 
be a man. If I were a man, I hope I would n’t give 
up my principles for a woman ; but if I did, I ’d hold 
to what I ’d done. I would n’t wriggle back into my 
principles again when I grew tired, and leave the 
woman in the lurch. What do men think of each 
other, Dick, when they think at all, — of such who do 
things like this ? What do you think of a man like 
Stravil ? ” 

“We don’t idealize each other, as a rule.” 

‘ ‘ How does she bear it ? ” 

“ I can’t tell you that. She does n’t speak of it.” 

“ She told you, of course.” 

“ The bare facts.” 

“ And you did n’t tell me. Of course, I did n’t de- 
serve that you should, and I ’m afraid you are one of 
the hard men who treat women as they deserve.” 

“ My dear,” — Dick felt the reproach and answered 
it — “it would have distressed you for nothing, con- 
sidering how strong your views are in the matter. 
Mrs. Stravil took it very quietly, told me what had 
happened, and that she did n’t want it talked about. 


236 


The Priest’s Marriage 


She mentioned you. She said, ‘ I suppose KHa will 
agree with what Eustace has done.’ That was all I 
could have told you; but, as you see, I did not until 
you asked me.” 

“ Have you seen her since ? ” 

“No. She said she would write when she was ready 
for visitors again.” 

“ And you allowed that ? You let her shut herself 
up and brood ? You did nothing ? ” 

“ There was nothing to do, except hold one’s 
tongue. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes ! That ’s your strong point, is n’t it? 
You can do that well. Do you never do anything 
else? Dick, you don’t live ! You just stand about 
and let things happen.” 

“ And sometimes,” said Dick, “ I ’d just as soon 
they did n’t happen.” 

Ella was nearly crying. She would have cried, only 
she was a woman who never repeated her effects, even 
natural effects. So she only stood with flushed face 
and shining eyes, and looked very beautiful indeed. 

“ Dick, I ’m going at once to Annie to say I ’ve been 
an idiot, and ask her to be friends again. I can’t be 
any comfort to her in the matter ; I sha’n’t try. But I 
have a sharper tongue than she has, and I can help to 
keep off other people’s curiosity until that weak crea- 
ture comes to his senses again. He will. He ’ll veer 
between his soul and his passions all his life, now he ’s 


For the Right 


237 


once begun, and she ’ll be sacrificed to each in turn. 
I must go to her. If she does n’t want me for a friend 
now, at least, she shall have the satisfaction of telling 
me so. That man has made me so ashamed that I 
can’t let the thing stand at my refusing to know her a 
moment longer. It ’s absurd.” 

“It ’s been absurd all along,” said Dick. “ You 
remember I said so.” 

Somehow the words sounded more affectionate than 
any he had yet spoken to her. They seemed to 
separate her so far from her faults. She was too tall 
ever to look up to a man effectively, but there was a 
certain expression of deference possible to her that took 
off at least six inches from her height. 

“ Do you think she ’ll make it up? Suppose you 
tell her how sorry I am, and that I ’m really much 
more in earnest in being sorry than I was about being 
idiotic.” 

“ Say that yourself,” said Dick. “ Show her the 
same side of yourself as you have just shown me, and 
I ’m quite sure she will be glad to be friends again.” 

“ Let ’s go now, then,” said Ella. 

“ If you like, I ’ll take you across the park to Sloane 
Street, and leave you there.” 

“ You won’t come in with me ? ” 

“No. I ’ll take you there and call for you in about 
an hour.” 

“ But suppose Annie won’t see me ? ” 


238 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Dick laughed. “ I ’ll wait while you hear if she ’s 
at home. She won’t turn you out ; it ’s raining, you 
know ; and she is not at all a dramatic person. There 
won’t even be a scene of reconciliation. When I come 
back I shall find you chatting quite easily to each 
other about things that don’t matter. I ’m glad you ’ ve 
changed your mind, you know. I have been rather 
ashamed of myself that I took your attitude towards 
her so patiently ’ ’ 

“ And I ’ve been very much irritated that you did,” 
said Ella, frankly. “ I really don’t think you ought 
to have let me be so ridiculous, you know. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Have you forgotten what you said about it ? ” said 
Dick, smiling. 

” I did n’t know this was going to happen then,” 
said Ella ; “ nor — nor I did n’t know you were quite 
nice, Dick.” She stopped, half expecting a pretty 
answer, but Dick did not make it. 

Well, after all, it is better for you to retract of 
your own choice than to please me,” he said. “ Shall 
we start now ? ’ ’ 

Archer’s prophecy proved correct. Annie received 
her old friend for all the world as if there had been no 
difference of opinion between them. She indicated ac- 
ceptance of implied amends, perhaps, by special em- 
phasis in her kiss and hand-grasp, but that was all ; and 
they sat and talked of everything and everyone under 
the sun, except Eustace Stravil and his desertion. 


For the Right 


239 


Before very long Annie asked if Ella would be god- 
mother to the child when it came, and Ella agreed, and 
showed frankly how much the suggestion pleased her. 
She thought Annie was asking what she had a right to 
ask, a public withdrawal, so to speak, of all she had 
said against the marriage, and she was pleased to have 
an opportunity of showing her change of front in so 
dignified and so effective a manner. 

‘ ‘ I want to ask Dick to be godfather, ’ ’ Annie said. 
‘ ‘ But, of course, not until afterwards. ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid Dick is a very strange person for the 
office,” Ella said, hesitatingly. “ But, of course, if I 
am godmother, he ought to be godfather. At any 
rate, we can join in one present, so that I shall be 
saved from giving something that would seem shabby 
in comparison with my colleague, and discrediting my 
office. Did you know poor Mab had muffed her music 
exam. ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, what a pity ! ’ ’ said Annie. ‘ ‘ How did that 
happen ? I thought you all expected her to do great 
things in music.” 

“ It seems she had n’t a grain of music in her,” said 
Ella ; “ only flexible fingers and any amount of per- 
severance. Dick has bought her a typewriter. She 
learned to play that in a week, and she is making more 
out of it than she ever would have done out of sonatas. 
She has no ear. I suppose I should have found that out 
if I had had any ear myself. Certainly I did always 


240 


The Priest’s Marriage 


think her scales worse to listen to than anyone else’s, 
but I thought that was only because she was my sister. ’ ’ 

Annie laughed, and when Dick returned he found 
them both laughing. He was asked to stay to dinner, 
and stayed. The three passed many pleasant evenings 
together after that. Annie began to go about as usual, 
ignoring gossip until it began to ignore her, and ceased 
to interest herself in her husband’s absence, or the 
cause of it. Presently London emptied for the summer. 
Annie gave up going out or receiving formally. They 
three still had pleasant, quiet evenings together. Blla 
enjoyed them immensely. She told the Baileys, with 
quite a sober air, that she was learning how much en- 
joyment there was in quiet pleasures, and that she 
preferred lounging in Annie’s little room while Dick 
played unobtrusively on the piano to going to the 
smartest of concerts, even when she had a new and 
thoroughly successful frock. 

On this Beatrice had kissed her, and said, “Then 
you really love him now, dear,” and Kfl&e asked her 
with some acrimony whether she ever heard from Mark 
Scarsdale. 

Ella was quite cross at the question, and encouraged 
Dick all the more to sit at the piano and play soft 
chords and sleepy melodies, while she and Annie gos- 
siped in the firelight. 

The musical evenings in Sloane Street stopped soon 
after that. Ella, who had been staying with Annie, 


For the Right 


241 


went home, and Mrs. Bailey took her place. Dick 
gathered that Annie’s friends were a little anxious 
about her. Press of business kept him at the office a 
good deal just then ; and some friends of the Feltring- 
hams coming from abroad brought messages for him, 
and in Dady Feltringham’s name claimed his assistance 
in appreciating London ; so that Ella did not see very 
much of him for a time. 

She called every da}^ to inquire after Annie, and 
spent the rest of her time making gorgeous raiment for 
her trousseau out of rather more expensive materials 
than she had hitherto allowed herself. 

16 




CHAPTER XXIV 


A knight’s vigil 


S soon as Mabel could “ play her typewriter ” cor- 



rectly, Ella drew up an attractive advertisement 
for her. 

“ You must get a connection by advertising that you 
will do typewriting cheaper than anyone else,” she 
said, “ and then you can raise your charges.” And 
when a bundle of illegible manuscript came in answer 
to the advertisement, Ella spent hours in helping her 
to decipher it. 

“Shall you tell Dick I ’ve got work already?” 
asked Mab. 

“I think not,” Ella answered. “ You see, he only 
gave you the typewriter to amuse you. But, of course, 
when I ’m married I sha’n’t be able to make your 
frocks, so the sooner you start a fund for the purpose 
of helping yourselves the better. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t care what the money ’s for, so I can make 
sure of earning it,” said Mab, sturdily. 

“ Well, you can, 3^ou see,” said Ella. “ But then Dick 


242 


A Knight’s Vigil 


243 


does n’t know how necessary it is for some of us to 
earn money ; or if he does, we need n’t remind him.” 

“ I don’t believe he gave it to her just to amuse 
her,” said Joan. ” I believe it was to keep her from 
strumming on the piano when he ’s here talking to 
you. The click of the typewriter is n’t heard in the 
next room, but the piano is.” 

‘ ‘ I believe he gave it to her because he was so happy 
about Ella that he felt he must give something to 
somebody. Eovers are always like that,” said Eucy, 
who was surreptitiously reading a penny novelette in- 
stead of her German grammar. 

‘ ‘ And I know he gave it to me because he under- 
stood that since I ’m so ugly I want to be useful,” said 
Mab. ” And I ’m glad he ’ll be my brother-in-law, so 
that I can be fond of him without being ridiculous. 
And I ’d like to tell him that I am useful ; but I won’t 
if Ella would rather I did n’t.” 

Ella was by no means sure which explanation of the 
gift was true. But she began to think a little im- 
patiently of Dick. He should not leave her so much 
alone when she was anxious about her friend, almost 
the only person she really cared for. It was unkind ; 
and almost with this thought Dick came. 

He suggested taking Ella and Mabel to a theatre, 
and was so pleasant and kind all the evening that Ella 
caught herself wishing over and over again that she 
was as satisfied with the engagement as he. He was 


244 


The Priest s Marriage 


so nice that she would have liked not to have had one 
regret, and she had two — ;^8oo a year was very little, 
and Dick was n’t Mark Scarsdale. When they reached 
Westbourne Square after the play, the eldest of the 
other children were still up. They always were when 
Ella was not at home to send them to bed. Just now 
she was glad to see them, for their presence made her 
feel suflSciently chaperoned to ask Dick to come in and 
have some hot soup. And he and she sat talking and 
laughing over the play they had seen — with Mab, as 
usual, adoring Dick silently, and the other children 
waiting on them. After about half an hour Dick rose 
to go. 

“ I ’ve kept you up a most unreasonable time,” he 
said. 

“I’m glad you came,” said Ella. “ I did n’t want 
to be alone. We are all rather worried about Annie, 
you know.” 

“ There ’s no special reason for anxiety, is there ? ” 
Dick asked. 

“ I don’t know. Mrs. Bailey was crying when I 
met her to-day. But then Mrs. Bailey always seizes 
every available opportunity to cry.” 

“ And the people who only cry once in a way are 
just as warm-hearted, are n’t they ? ” said Dick, laying 
a hand lightly on her shoulder. “ Good-night, dear,” 
and he kissed her. 

“ Call a cab,” said Ella. “ It ’s a horrid night.” 


A Knight’s Vigil 


245 


“ No, I want to walk. Get in out of the cold. We 
don’t want you ill too, you know. Good-night.” 

When Ella turned, Mab was standing in the hall. 
Ella bent and kissed her. 

” What ’s that for ? ” said Mab, pleased, but curious. 

” Goto bed, you little wretch,” said Ella, going up- 
stairs herself. ‘ ‘ What are you watching me for ? ” 

” I know,” said Eucy, who was, as usual, in the 
background. ” It ’s because Mr. Archer is so much 
nicer than ’ Arry Balham. You did us all a good turn, 
after all, Mab, when you muffed your exam. ’Arry 
would n’t have had anything to do with us ; we ’re so 
like his own people, he ’d have been ashamed of us.” 

But neither this reflection nor Ella’s rare outburst of 
affection could raise Mab’s spirits. She went upstairs 
holding one hand before her mouth. Unlike most 
people of strong emotions, it was harder for her to con- 
tain her feelings than to speak them. She held her 
mouth shut till Eucy, who followed her, was asleep ; 
and then lay sobbing. 

“ He ’ll never be my brother-in-law,” she wept. 
” Never ; he ’ll die — I ’m quite sure. No one ever 
looked so good and so sad unless he was going to die. 
And Ella never noticed. She thought he was enjoying 
himself, and he was only pretending to enjoy himself to 
please us ; and now he ’s gone away to be miserable 
alone, and nobody knows or is sorry.” 

Some hours later, the doctor coming out from 


246 


The Priest s Marriage 


Annie’s doorway into the fog was startled by the sight 
of a man in evening dress leaning against the garden 
railings opposite him. The doctor instinctively crossed 
towards him, for people in evening dress don’t lean 
against railings in the dead of night when they are 
quite themselves ; and the young man’s attitude did 
not suggest drunkenness. Before the doctor could get 
across the road the young man came forward and said 
quietly : 

“ You have just come from No. 27 ? ’* 

“Yes.” 

“ How is she ? ” 

“ Out of danger, I think.” 

“ Thank you.” The young man raised his hat and 
was about to move on. Then he stopped. “ Was it 
— did she ? ’ ’ 

The doctor peered through his glasses into a white, 
quiet face — emotionless but for the eyes — and j umped 
to a conclusion. 

“ Did she suffer, you would say? Yes, exception- 
ally. Upon my soul, I always come away from these 
cases wondering. Wondering how many of us men 
are worth what our mothers go through in bringing us 
into the world. When I hear some little ape, with no 
more manhood than serves to take him to the devil, 
sneering at women, I wish it were possible to put him 
to the pain these women bear as a matter of course, 
and see what would come of his superiority then. 


A Knight s Vigil 


247 


Why, a man makes more fuss over the toothache than 
that brave little woman has made to-night. She was 
as calm as if she felt nothing. She would n’t hear of 
chloroform. Every thought was for the child, nothing 
but the child.” 

” And not a thought that I ? ” 

“That you cared, you would say. Had you any 
right to expect it ? ” 

“ No.” 

The young man turned away again, but the doctor’s 
heart smote him. It was possible that the man out- 
side had suffered as much as the woman within. His 
question had been a cry breaking through a self- 
constraint quite as terrible as hers. 

“You must remember, if she had had such a 
thought, it would n’t be to me that she would have 
spoken it,” he said, and he laid a hand on the young 
man’s shoulder to detain him. 

“ Go back to her,” he went on. “ I ’m taking a 
libertj^ ; but you began it, you see, by asking me ques- 
tions. I don’t know what you ’ve been up to, of 
course. That ’s no business of mine. But I do know 
that she ’s so happy with h^r boy that she ’d forgive 
anything, and probably get well twice as soon for doing 
it.” 

The doctor felt the young man’s shoulder shrink 
from under his hand. Almost before his sentence was 
ended he found himself alone in the fog. He walked 


248 


The Priest’s Marriage 


on ; his house was only round the next corner. Pres- 
ently he heard steps behind him, and waited. The 
young man was at his elbow. 

“ I had better set you right,” he said. I am not 
Mr. Stravil. If I had left you under your mistake, 
you might have said something to them which would 
have led to disappointment.” 

They were under a gas lamp, and the little circle of 
lurid light it made in the fog took in both figures. 
The doctor looked hard in the young man’s face for a 
moment. 

” God help you ! ” he said, and walked on. 

A policeman’s lamp flashed in his face. 

” It ’s all right, is n’t it, sir ? ” said the policeman, 
who knew the doctor. ” The young gentleman ’s 
been round here most nights lately, and these Sher- 
lock ’Dimes days one never knows who does n’t want 
watching. But if you know him ” 

” He ’s all right,” said the doctor, and he let him- 
self in at his own door. 




CHAPTER XXV 


THE WISER WAY 



NNIE’S boy was an exceptionally satisfactory 


baby. He grew as be should, gave his nurses 
and the doctor no anxiety, and refrained from wails at 
his christening. Annie’s case was more doubtful. It 
was some weeks before her friends gave up being 
anxious about her, and still longer before she could 
chatter comfortably with several of them at a time in 
her own drawing-room. 

She got to this at last, however, one afternoon. 
Several people were in the room, and the baby was 
downstairs for inspection. Beatrice Bailey and one or 
two others were fussing over it and irritating the 
nurse. Lady Mary Caine and Mrs. East, Mrs. Bailey’s 
married daughters, were at the tea-table, talking to 
Annie, when Dick was announced. Annie managed 
to convey an apology for the crowd in her greeting. 

“ The ‘ C. C. D.’ Secretary and the baby,” said one 
of the ladies ; ‘ ‘ how delightfully incongruous ! This 
is the baby’s first ‘ at home.’ We have all come to 


250 


The Priest s Marriage 


look at him. Now you are here, you will have to look 
at him too. There is nothing I enjoy so much as see- 
ing a man look at a baby. He is so utterly in the dark 
as to what he ought to do with it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, but I assure you, I shall do nothing with it, ’ ’ 
said Dick, seating himself at a safe distance. “ My 
duties don’t commence for ten years at least, I under- 
stand.” 

“Duties?” said the lady, and looked as though 
there must be a joke somewhere, and she would laugh 
directly she understood it. “ Have people in govern- 
ment offices ever any duties ? ’ ’ 

“ Did n’t you know Mr. Archer was godfather? ” 
said Beatrice Bailey. 

The lady imagined she had found her joke, and 
laughed. 

“ Oh, how funny,” she said. 

“ Not at all,” said Annie. “ Mr. Archer undertook 
his duties in the spirit, not the letter. He is n’t going 
to teach the boy the ten commandments and the cate- 
chism in the vulgar tongue. He ’s going to take him 
out to get his shoes wet, and his clothes in a mess, and 
things like that. A boy never grows up quite a gentle- 
man if he has only his mother to look after him. And 
his godmother — Miss Payne is his godmother, you 
know — will spoil him just as much as I do. So Mr. 
Archer will always be at hand to work against our 
feminine influence, ’ ’ 


The Wiser Way 


251 


Dick understood. This was a manifesto. People 
were to know that Stravil was never coming back, and 
were to ask no questions. He wondered whether 
Annie had heard further news lately. He looked at 
her keenly. She seemed older, he thought, and more 
resolute, and yet curiously like what she had been be- 
fore her marriage. He saw that her friends had noted 
her speech, and were probably comparing it in their 
minds with her previous reticence. 

“ Tet me look at the young man,” he said. “ He 
seems to know how to behave tolerably well already. 
I thought babies always cried when they were on 
exhibition.” 

Beatrice Bailey brought him across the room, fol- 
lowed by the anxious nurse. 

“ There ! ” she said; “ is n’t he a darling ? ” 

“ He ’s quite an average baby,” said Annie. “ I ’ve 
seen uglier, and I ’ve seen prettier. Now confess, 
Dick, you can’t see any difference between this baby 
and the others.” 

” I ’ve seen so few,” said Dick, with a befitting air 
of helplessness. “ I think this is rather prettier than 
the average, but it is a little like all the others.” 

” Just like — there ’s no difference whatever,” and 
Annie laughed. Dick was so nice ; he always under- 
stood just w'hat he was wanted to say. ” No difference 
in the world, except that this one is mine.” She 
touched the little crumpled-up red hand, and colored 


252 


The Priest’s Marriage 


with pleasure as the fingers closed round her own. 
“ Quite mine ; only I have deliberately given the 
calmest, least emotional man I know the right to inter- 
fere when I ’m silly, and spoil him. Take him away, 
nurse, before we make him cross. We want some 
more tea.” 

The other guests soon left. When the door had 
closed on the last of their adieux, Annie dropped into 
a chair with a sigh of relief. 

“ I came directly I got your note,” said Dick. ” I 
had been out of town.” 

“ Yes ; when I wrote I did n’t know you were out of 
town, and if I ’d known you were back, I would have 
warned you not to come when all these people were 
here. I wanted to talk to you. I did n’t know quite 
so many would come, or I would have asked Klla to 
come and help me through with it. ’ ’ 

“You did very well.” 

“ Do you think they understood ? ” 

‘ ‘ I fancy you told them as much as it concerns them 
to know.” 

“ I wanted to tell you first. That was why I wrote 
to ask you to come. Can you dine to-night, or does 
Ella expect you ? ” 

“ I can stay.” 

“ Let ’s go to my room until dinner-time ; it ’s cosier 
there, and you can smoke. You go, while I tell them 
to bring the boy to me to be put to sleep while nurse 


The Wiser Way 


253 


has her tea. You won’t mind that, will you ? He 
goes to sleep quite nicely. ’ ’ 

Annie followed Dick to her boudoir, and seated her- 
self in a low chair by the fire. 

“ That ’s right : you ’ve got your cigarette,” she 
said. “A cigarette, even someone else’s, is such a help 
when one wants to say things one really feels ! ” 

” You have heard something about Stravil ? ” 

” No, nothing, except what I heard at first through 
the lawyers about the money, and that he was never 
coming back, and would n’t even see my letters if I 
wrote. That ’s all settled. It ’s something else I 
wanted to speak about. ’ ’ 

“ Take your time,” said Dick. 

” I ’m so glad Ella is friends with me again,” Annie 
said, presently. ” If she had not been, it would have 
been impossible for you and me to keep as we are. I 
think she knew that, and so she stopped disapproving 
directly I needed you very badly. Don’t you think it 
was fine of her ? I wish you would tell her what I 
think of it.” 

” Why not tell her yourself? ” 

” Oh, that ’s the sort of thing one can’t say to the 
people concerned. One feels so silly and uncomfort- 
able ; one can only say it of them. Well, that ’s the 
first thing I want to say. Ella has made it possible for 
you and me to be what we always have been. She 
will have you, and I shall have the boy, and we shall 


254 


The Priest’s Marriage 


all four be very happy. When you and she are mar- 
ried, it will be quite natural for my boy’s godfather and 
godmother to help me with him, and keep me from 
spoiling him. So you see what you let yourself in for, 
Dick, when you agreed to stand.” 

“That ’s all right,” said Dick. “You and Ella 
both warned me, you know. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But there is more than that, ’ ’ said Annie. ‘ ‘ Some- 
thing I can only talk about to you. You heard 
what I said just now about children who only have 
mothers?” 

“Yes.” 

“You knew what I meant ? ” 

“ I thought you had had further news of Stravil. 
But you say you have not.” 

“ No ; I am no surer than I was at the first that he 
would not come back. Only, I am resolved that he 
shall noty 

There was a knock at the door, and the nurse en- 
tered with the child. 

“ He is very sleepy, ma’am,” she said. “ I could 
soon put him to sleep myself if you are tired.” 

“No, nurse,” said Annie; “bring him here. I 
want him.” 

The child was in his night-dress, though Dick failed 
to recognize any change in his toilet. Annie laid him 
across her knees and played with the little dimples and 
creases in his neck. 


The Wiser Way 


255 


“ I suppose it is only mothers who really think babies 
pretty,” she said, a little wistfully. 

“ This one is pretty,” said Dick. 

“You have n’t touched him yet.” 

Dick stroked the satiny cheek with one finger. 

“ I ’ll help you with him as much as you want when 
he is big enough,” he said. 

“You notice,” said Annie, “ how terribly like his 
father he is ? ” 

Her face turned very white as she asked the question. 
Archer answered quickly : 

‘ ‘ He has black eyes, and will have black eyebrows. 
I think that is all.” 

“ You saw the likeness the first moment you saw 
him. That was why you would n’t touch him. He is 
so like his father. ” 

“That ’s nonsense,” said Dick. “Who ’d be so 
unjust to the poor little chap ? Besides, I did n’t dis- 
like Stravil as much as that would imply. In fact, I 
did n’t dislike him at all, and you ’ll find presently 
that I am very fond of my godson, whether he has 
black eyes or not.” 

“ That ’s not all,” said Annie. Her hand was lying 
lightly on the child’s breast. For a moment she made 
a movement as if she would unfasten the little white 
robe, but changed her mind. 

“ I don’t mean him to be like his father in any- 
thing,” she said. 


256 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ Will you tell me what you have on your mind, and 
get it over ? ” said Dick. “ Set the child down some- 
where and tell me.” 

Annie laughed a little. 

” He ’ll have to stay on my knee till he goes to 
sleep. One can’t lay a child down like a book or a 
work-basket, but I ’ll talk quite quietly. I have been 
thinking about this day and night almost since he 
came. It ’s not enough that Eustace says he will not 
come back. I must make sure that he cannot. Do 
you remember, Dick, how nice life was before he came 
into it ? There never seemed any harm in anything. 
You and I were never ashamed. Of course, he would 
have said that was because you were not in love with 
me.” 

” Go on,” said Dick. ” What are you trying to tell 
me?” 

” I find I can’t say it, even to you. I ’m ashamed 
of having had such thoughts : they seem so wicked and 
foolish now.” She raised the child’s tiny hand, and 
kissed the finger tips, smiling, but her face grew scarlet. 

“ The one thing is, Eustace must not come back 
now the boy is here. When he left me — I daresay you 
all thought I was grieving because he left me. I 
should have been, perhaps, if it had n’t been for the 
reason why he left me. In a little while, I began to 
fear his coming back, instead of wanting it. When- 
ever I thought of the boy, I was dreadfully afraid. My 


The Wiser Way 


257 


son shall not be a priest. He shall not look at life 
through a priest’s eyes. Do you know that picture of 
Saint Monica and her son, the priest ? I always hated 
it. I can’t think how any woman could want her son 
to be a priest. It is like rebuking God for having 
given her a son, if in atonement for it she is to have no 
son. It is shaming the motherhood God gave her. I 
know quite well what Eustace would want. But I 
won’t have it. My son is to be just like other boys ; 
strong and happy, and a man. And he must marry, 
and love his wife, and be glad he loves her, not 
ashamed. I ’d rather he died now than lived to think 
about me and his own wife as his father thinks. You 
remember I asked you once if you would bring me a 
wicked book to see if I liked it ? Eustace had been 
speaking to me, and I remembered things that he be- 
lieved. It was that day I came out of church, you 
know. The world had begun to be horrible. I wanted 
to know for certain if it was horrible, too. That day 
on the river put things quite right for a long time, and 
then Eustace — Oh, I can’t say it ! You love Ella, you 
know. Well, love is a good thing, is n’t it ? It is n’t 
what Eustace thinks it — what he made me think it.” 

” It is a good thing. Almost the only good thing. 
I don’t think you need say any more, dear. I under- 
stand you.” 

“ Then you understand that he must not come back. 

The world began to grow clean again directly he left me. 

17 


258 


The Priest s Marriage 


I began to be glad the boy was coming, as I was at 
first. Before he came, I only thought of hushing 
things up and avoiding scandal. Now, I want to 
know how I can be free.” 

“Free?” 

Dick repeated the word as a question, surprised. 

” Quite free, you know,” she said, quietly. 

” It ’s a horrible thing to face,” said Dick. 

He did n’t mention the word. They both under- 
stood it. 

“Could I do that?” 

“ I don’t know.” He remembered those rumors 
doubtfully, quite certain that Annie did not mean to 
search the gutters for evidence against her husband. 
“ In any case, not for some time, you know.” 

“ But there ’s an easier way now. I could bring an 
action to make him come back, and when he did not, 
I could be free. There was a case like that in the 
papers the very day I first began to be afraid. That 
put it into my mind. ’ ’ 

“You don’t know what you are talking of,” said 
Dick. 

“Yes, I think I do. Horrible publicity — dreadful 
things said about me — my name in the papers. It 
would be terrible. That woman in the papers did it 
for her son’s sake. I can do it for mine.” 

“ Are you quite sure ? ” Dick spoke with an effort, 
but he spoke firmly. “ Are you quite sure that you 


The Wiser Way 


259 


are just to Stravil ? You are a quiet woman. He ’s 
an emotional, almost an hysterical man. If he has 
done a thing he may regret, won’t you give him a 
chance to undo it ? ” 

“ If there was only me,” said Annie, ” I would.” 

” And are you quite sure that you won’t regret this 
if you do it ? One does n’t lose love so easily. Would 
you feel so bitter against him if you did not love him ? ’ ’ 

“ If I love him, that ’s sin,” she said. “ He says 
so. The more I love him, the worse he thinks me. 
If I loved him more than I did the day I married him, 
that would be the chief reason why he should not come 
back. ’ ’ 

“ But, dear — think. Togo into court, answer cross- 
examinations, to put yourself in a position that ’ ’ 

“ I know,” interrupted Annie. “ I know quite 
well. It will be like going into the midst of a fever 
hospital. But I shall not die of it. I can come out, 
and bathe and disinfect myself, and forget all about it. 
That will be better, I think, than letting my son grow 
up to manhood in poisoned air.” 




CHAPTER XXVI 

REI.KASKD 

S OME little time later Ella, on a shopping expedition, 
found herself at Regent’s Circus. That was by no 
means unusual. She generally shopped in that neigh- 
borhood. If one chooses discreetly, one can shop as well 
at a big cheap Holborn warehouse as in Bond Street. 
One pays more at the latter place for the convenience 
of having the best things selected, and one’s choice 
made easier. But Ella could better afiord to dispense 
with skilled assistance than to pay highly. So 
the extremes of the shopping districts were familiar 
to her. No familiarity, however, would make the 
crossings easy to Ella ; so she hesitated, skirts in 
hand, as she generally did, and looked long into the 
shops, waiting for that mythical “ lull in the traffic ” 
which optimists and people from the country believe 
in so firmly. 

There seemed no special reason why she should re- 
member that day when she had parted from Mark 
Scarsdale at this very crossing, but she did think of 
260 


Released 


261 


him while she waited. Then she set her teeth firmly, 
grasped her skirt, and stepped off the pavement. At 
that moment she felt a firm hand on her arm, and, 
turning her face, saw Mark beside her. He looked 
thinner and browner. She noticed that change, but no 
other. He was the same man, so far as she was con- 
cerned. 

“ I ’ve been watching you for the last five minutes,” 
he said. ” If I had n’t been here, you ’d never have 
got across. What you ’ve done all the time I ’ve 
been away, I don’t know.” 

She only said ” Ah ! ” under her breath. Talking 
on a crossing was out of the question. Besides, she 
needed a little time to consider how she had best de- 
scribe her doings while he had been away. She 
did n’t get it, however, for the moment they were safe 
on the opposite pavement, Mark spoke: 

” I have n’t got fifty thousand pounds a year, but 
I ’ve got five. Will that do ? ” 

One would have done,” said Ella. 

She said it without thinking, without caring if it was 
the right thing to say, or considering what effect it 
would have on him, or how she looked when she said 
it. She said it because it was true. For the first time 
in her life she had ” let herself go.” The sensation 
was delicious. 

” Oh,” said Mark. “ Then we ’re engaged, are n’t 
we?” 


262 


The Priest’s Marriage 


She reined in her emotions, but they still showed 
unmanageable in her face. 

“ Oh, no — not yet ; but we will be.” 

“ What ’s the matter ? ” 

“ You must ask me again, presently. I shall say 
yes ; but you must not ask me yet. Don’t be angry 
with me, Mark. You see: you have n’t much right, 
for you never thought very well of me. But, such as 
I am, when you ask me I shall say yes. ’ ’ 

“ How soon may I ask you ? ” 

“ Oh, perhaps in three quarters of an hour — And 
just now — well, you ’d better call a cab, I think.” 

” Where to ? ” he asked, as he handed her in. 

” Whitehall.” 

” Is it a Government affair ? ” he asked. 

She did n’t answer. He got in beside her. 

“ Shall I tell you what I ’ve been doing now, or 
wait till we are engaged ? ” he said. 

“You may as well begin now.” 

“ You would like to hear about the money first, of 
course. ’ ’ 

She looked at him quickly ; but he had spoken quite 
simply and naturally, without any trace of reproach or 
sarcasm. 

“You found diamonds, I suppose ? ” 

“No. I did n’t.” 

“ Oh ; I thought you had come back with your 
pockets full of diamonds.” 


Released 263 

‘ ‘ Would you have liked that ? It will be cheaper 
to buy them in I<ondon, ready set. ’ ’ 

“ But how did you get so rich, if you did n’t find 
diamonds ? ’ ’ 

“ I found a white Caffir.” 

“ What in the world is that ? ” 

“ Well, this one was a misanthrope. He had run 
away from civilization twenty years ago because of a 
girl.” 

” A girl who would n’t have him ? ” 

” A girl who would n’t have him because he was 
poor.” 

” Poor girl! ” said Ella ; “ she was miserable, I ex- 
pect.” 

“ Oh, no; married someone else,” said Scarsdale. 

But, considering how near she had been doing the 
same thing herself, neither the tone of contempt for the 
other girl, nor the look of happy proprietorship turned 
on herself, gave Ella the gratification one has a right 
to expect from an intense compliment. 

“ Well : we were going north,” continued Scarsdale, 
” a little set of us — all broke, you know, as I was. We 
were n’t looking for diamonds, but gold. One of us 
had got it into his head that there was gold to be had 
in Quis, and we were going to look for it, and on the 
way we found a white Caflfir. He ’d lived for twenty 
years without seeing a white face, and the poor chap 
was dying, and he had an idea that he wanted to go 


264 


The Priest’s Marriage 


home and die on his farm. He ’d let his farm on a 
twenty years’ lease, and the twenty years were up, and 
he ’d got some sort of an idea that if he went home to 
the farm he ’d find the girl there. He was off his head, 
you know, and the blacks were all afraid, and would n’t 
take him any farther.” 

“Yes,” said Ella. 

“ I could n’t stand it, you know— the way he talked 
about that girl. She could n’t have been good for 
much ; but of course he thought her perfect still. When 
he was n’t off his head — he used to get quiet in the 
evenings — he told me all about her. We got very 
chummy. ’ ’ 

” And you told him about me ? ” 

” Not quite all.” 

“ I see. Only the best of me.” 

“ Then he wanted me to leave him, and go with the 
rest after the gold, and get rich, and go back to you.” 

” And you ? ” 

” I said I ’d be — somethinged if I would. I was go- 
ing to take him back to his farm. Anyone would, 
you know. You must n’t mind. It was only putting 
off coming back to you for a little while.” 

” Of course I don’t mind. Go on.” 

” We never got to his farm. We did our best; but 
he had n’t strength for it. We struck a missionary 
station a couple of days before he died. He was quite 
himself at the last, and insisted on making his will. 


Released 


265 


He left me the farm. When we ’d seen the last of the 
poor old chap, I was in two minds about going straight 
back to Quis gold hunting; but the missionaries per- 
suaded me to find out first if the farm was worth any- 
thing. So I went south, and I found what had been a 
farm twenty years ago was the very middle of a town, 
with two big hotels and half the market-place on it. I 
had a little trouble in proving my claims, but I did 
prove them. And that ’s all.” 

It was to Ella’s credit that, though her chief thought 
was, what a blessing the missionaries were there to 
witness the will, she kept it to herself, and blushed over 
it. The cab stopped at Whitehall Buildings. 

‘ ‘ Shall I wait ? ’ ’ asked Scarsdale cheerfully. 

” Oh, no! that would be dreadful. It ’s bad enough 
as it is. Go to Westbourne Terrace. No, don’t — I 
must see my people before you do. Drive to the Marble 
Arch, and wait inside the park at the first seat till I 
come. I ’ll be as quick as I can.” 

” I ’m afraid you ’ve not been behaving at all well,” 
said Scarsdale; but he laughed with such manifest de- 
light in her behavior, good or bad, that she really did 
feel a little ashamed of herself as she inquired for Mr. 
Archer, and went upstairs. 

Dick was engaged. She had to wait a minute or two. 
When the person who was with him passed out, she 
recognized him as Mr. Saunders, the solicitor who was 
conducting Annie’s case. Somehow the incident made 


266 


The Priests Marriage 


her feel less uncomfortable. After all, Dick was not 
likely to suffer. 

“ I was sorry to make you wait,’^ said Dick. “I’m 
very busy this morning.” 

“ I sha’n’t keep you for long,” said Ella, and then 
the double meaning of the words struck her, and she 
laughed nervously. 

“ Is anything wrong ? ” said Dick. 

“ I don’t know if it ’s something gone wrong or 
something come right,” said Ella, doubtfully ; “ but I 
almost think it is something come right for both of us. 
It ’s mere justice to say you have never professed any 
very violent affection for me, but still ” 

She stopped short, for, to her surprise, Dick had 
turned very white, and then his face had settled into 
the expression of emotionless politeness which means 
that a man expects to hear something that will pain 
him. Could Dick have really cared for her enough to 
have necessitated that quick but quite apparent change 
from dismay to self-control ? 

“ Dick,” she said, with the deprecatory look that 
made her seem quite small and meek, and took 
all the arrogant arch out of her nose — “Dick, 
when two people make a mistake, and one of them 
finds it out, that one ought to say so at once, don’t 
you think ? ’ ’ 

Dick merely waited with polite attention. 

She found her task more and more difficult. Why 


Released 


267 


had Dick looked frightened — yes, actually frightened 
for a moment ? Suppose after all that he cared for her 
very much indeed ! 

“ Someone always has to speak out,” said Ella, “ or 
life would never get on at all. And you never would, 
Dick. I ’ve told you so before.” 

“Yes?” 

That little habit of saying “ Yes” in interrogation 
had always irritated her. Why could n’t he say 
“ Well ? ” like anyone else ? 

“ Mark Scarsdale has come back,” she said. 

“Oh! How is he?” 

The question seemed absurdly inadequate. It gave 
her no help whatever. She could only sit looking em- 
barrassed, possibly for the first time in her life. 

Dick suddenly leaned back in his chair and burst into 
laughter. 

Ella was very angry. 

“ I am glad you are amused,” she said. 

Dick apologized abjectly. “I ’m very sorry,” he 
said. “ I was laughing at my own density. I assure 
you, that ’s all. Please go on.” 

“ If you had been a girl, I should have said that you 
were hysterical,” said Ella. 

“ If I had been a girl, you would have been right. 
As it is, I am afraid I was shockingly rude,” said Dick. 
“ Now, go on. Mr. Scarsdale is returned, and is quite 
well — did you say he was quite well ? And the mistake 


268 


The Priest’s Marriage 


you have discovered is your engagement, which you 
want broken off at once. ’ ’ 

Dick was speaking quite cheerfully and easily. KHa 
was the more puzzled. Why had he been so strange 
at first ? 

“ I ’m so glad you are not angry, ’ ’ said Klla. ‘ ‘ I was 
really very much ashamed of myself, you know, and 
very sorry ; but if you don’t care at all ” 

“ It would be all the same, would n’t it ? ” said Dick, 

‘ ‘ whether I cared or not. ’ ’ 

Ella turned a very beautiful and very becoming shade 
of red. 

“ I see it would. Then we won’t discuss that part 
of the matter. I ’ll give you back your word, and 
we ’ll say no more about it.” 

” You never say anything about anything ! ” cried 
Ella, impatiently. “ I don’t believe you have any 
feelings of any sort. I came up here feeling as wicked 
as a murderer. Well, I really could n’t help being 
happy, but I honestly was ashamed of myself, Dick, 
and you have surprised me very much. It would have 
been shocking of you to have married me, caring so 
little. Dick, why in the world did you ask me to marry 
you ? ” 

For one moment she thought Dick was going to tell 
her. Perhaps for one moment he longed for the relief 
of doing so. He liked her immensely. Her vanity, her 
ingenuous selfishness, the directness of her methods, all 


Released 


269 


pleased him. But one cannot say to one woman, “ Be- 
cause you were the one person in all the world who 
seemed to need me ; ’ ’ the inference that another woman 
did not follows too closely on such a confession. So 
he said nothing. Ella began to be herself again. She 
had not enjoyed feeling small and ashamed. 

“I’m glad you are not angry,” she said ; “ and still 
more glad you are not sorrier. I suppose you might 
scold me if you liked. Still, for a girl to marry a man 
she only likes and respects and believes in is n’t so very 
discreditable is it ? And I really did like you, Dick.” 

“ You are not going to stop liking me, are you ? ” 
said Dick. “ I sha’n’t stop liking you any the more 
because I don’t make myself disagreeable. I believe 
you would have been a good wife, and I ’d have done 
my best to be a good husband, and we should have 
been as happy as our neighbors. Now, I suppose you 
are going to be much happier than your neighbors.” 

“ If I ’m not,” said Ella, “ I shall have, at least, the 
satisfaction of being miserable with one person who 
really loves me.” 

“ Well, I congratulate you on that. It ’s some- 
thing,” said Dick. She had forgotten him and his 
feelings, which was fortunate. He went on speaking 
a few common-place congratulations, and she told him 
of Scarsdale’s improved prospects. Presently she rose 
to go and, removing her glove, began to draw Dick’s 
ring from her finger. 


The Priest’s Marriage 


270 

“ Won’t j^ou keep that for a wedding present ? ” he 
said. “Not there, of course — Scarsdale will want that 
place for his — but on the other hand. Let me put it on 
the other hand for you. ’ ’ 

He did so, and then saw Ella down-stairs and into a 
cab. Then he looked at his watch, and wondered if he 
had time to catch the solicitor at his office. 

Annie’s case against her husband was simple enough, 
but there were still one or two details to arrange. The 
trial was to come on in a day or two. Annie was tak- 
ing it very quietly, but Dick knew how much more the 
thing frightened and distressed her in the prospect than 
its actual occurrence would. He was with her nearly 
every day now, and found himself walking instinctively 
in the direction of her house. She was to continue to 
live in Sloane Street until this preliminary affair was 
over, and then stay with Mrs. Bailey until Beatrice’s 
marriage, and after that go abroad with Mrs. Bailey 
and Effie. Now his engagement was broken off, there 
was no reason why he should not join them. He 
found himself walking quickly, going over his interview 
with Ella, and laughing at it. 

He heard a step behind him, and, turning, saw the 
lawyer. He waited. He had forgotten all about him. 

“ I went back to your office,’’ the lawyer said. “ I 
had forgotten something I was just about to ask you 
when Miss Payne called. By the way, I have never 
congratulated you on your engagement. It shows 


Released 


271 


what an old fogey I am that I had forgotten I knew so 
charming a young lady as Miss Payne till I saw her in 
your ojfice to-day. I used to see a good deal of her 
when her father was alive. I ought to have remem- 
bered the name when you told me of your engagement. ’ ’ 

“ It ’s broken off,” said Dick. 

“ Oh ! I ’m sorry.” The lawyer looked astonished 
for a lawyer, but he was himself again in a second. 
” Well, about this business,” he said ; and he men- 
tioned the incident which he had forgotten. His way 
home lay across the park, so he walked on with Dick 
till he came to the cross path that led to it, and then 
the two separated carelessly. 

Dick walked on, considering. The lawyer was too 
busy a man to be curious. He had understood, of 
course, why a man acting, as Dick was, the part of 
champion to a married woman, had instinctively men- 
tioned his own engagement. It would seem natural to 
him that after his own visit Mrs. Stravil’s friend should 
go and report to her. Mr. Saunders’s own way being 
across the park rendered it an easy and insignificant 
thing that he should overtake him. Ella’s manner in 
his office had not suggested jealousy, except to himself 
for one moment. It did not matter if the lawyer knew 
that the broken engagement was no calamity. Lawyers 
had to know things, and when they were good fellows, 
such as this one, their knowing things mattered very 
little. Still, he walked slower. 


2J2 


The Priest’s Marriage 


He had reached the drive, and noticed a carriage stop 
just in front of him. The occupant was smiling and 
waiting for him to come up. It was Tady Feltring- 
ham. He had forgotten that she was to be back in 
town this week. 

“ You are in good spirits,” she said. 

“ Was I in such good spirits that you saw it all that 
way off? ” asked Dick. 

“ Why, yes ; it was in your very walk. I wanted to 
scold you, but I won’t. I never scold anyone who 
looks happy. Happiness is the only thing I respect ; 
there ’s so little of it that it should be sacred. One 
must n’t interrupt it. Why have you not come to see 
me?” 

‘ ‘ I will come to-morrow, if I may, ’ ’ said Dick. 

“ No, not to-morrow — the next day ; no, some dull 
people are coming then. The day after — don’ t forget. ’ ’ 

Lady Feltringham drove on. 

Dick turned and walked slowly homeward. The 
lawyer did not matter at all ; Lady Feltringham did not 
matter much ; but there was one person who must not 
find him in good spirits the day his engagement with 
Ella was broken off. 




CHAPTER XXVII 

I,ADY FKIvTRINGHAM’S CONCKRN 

T he publicity of the court turned out to be very 
much less dreadful than Annie’s fears of it had 
been. The whole affair was over so soon. It had only 
to be stated and proved that Eustace Stravil had left 
his wife, and had sent word, through his lawyers, that 
he would not return to her, that she had written to 
him, and received back her letter unopened, and that 
she had done nothing to provoke this treatment. 
There was no defence, and the order for the husband’s 
return within fourteen days was obtained without 
opposition. 

Annie had left the court directly she had given her 
evidence. Beatrice Bailey was with her. Ella had 
kept away since the breaking off of her engagement. 
Dick and the lawyer followed them to Sloane Street 
almost before they had had time, as Beatrice put it, to 
take off their hats and begin to be nervous. 

Annie took the news very quietly. “lam glad it ’s 
done,” she said, and sat looking so very tired that both 

i8 


273 


2 74 The Priest’s Marriage 

men knew the very best thing for them to do was to 
leave at once. 

“ Come soon, Dick ; but I can’t talk to-day.” 

Then she turned to speak to the lawyer, but he had 
shaken hands and gone before she had found more than 
an incoherent word or two. 

” I ’ll take care of her,” Beatrice said to Dick as she 
went to the door with him. ” I do wish it had n’t been 
at our house she had met that man ! ’ ’ 

Dick thought it would have been more to the purpose 
to wish she had not met him at any house, but did not 
say so. Beatrice went back to Annie. 

” I wish you could come home with me to-night,” 
she said. 

” But I can’t ; I have to stay in this house a fort- 
night, ’ ’ said Annie. ‘ ‘ I must go through all the forms 
properly ; but just now I think I ’ll go to bed. It ’s a 
funny time to go to bed, but I ’m so horribly tired. I 
don’t think there 's anything so tiring in the world as 
being anxious, and not showing it.” 

“You certainly did n’t show it this afternoon,” said 
Bee. ” You were very calm.” 

” It was n’t this afternoon. It was waiting for this 
afternoon. I suppose I am calm. Perhaps it ’s my 
nature to be calm, or my training. Mother was a very 
placid person, you know. I remember now how one 
of my governesses once told me, when I was in a 
temper, that I must n’t let my mother see me so, for 


Lady Feltringham s Concern 


275 


any shock might kill her. She was a nice governess, 
and took the very best way to cure my temper ; but I 
expect she did n’t bargain for my taking her quite so 
seriously as I did. She cured me a little too effectually 
of showing my feelings. One can’t ever be quite sure 
of what they are oneself if one keeps them in too 
rigidly.” 

“ Your mother might have died at any time, might 
she not ? ’ ’ asked Beatrice. 

“Yes, I suppose she really died of joy at seeing 
me so happily married.” 

Beatrice felt the bitterness in the speech, and strug- 
gled to get away from it. 

“ Mr. Archer is a calm person, too,” she said, ” and 
I suppose he had as much to do with forming your 
character, as the phrase is, as any governess. ’ ’ 

“ Dick? Yes. He ’s such a calm person that he 
does more than teach you to curb your feelings : he 
almost makes you not have any. Bee, do you know 
all this time I have been wishing I were one of those 
women who scream and go into hysterics, and lie on 
the floor and writhe. I should like to do it now, but I 
can’t. The next best thing would be to take an opiate 
that would keep me asleep for five years. You might 
wake me up just for one day, for your wedding, and 
then let me drop off again.” 

” And wake up when all this fuss was quite for- 
gotten,” said Beatrice. ” I don’t think it will take 


276 


The Priest’s Marriage 


five years, you know ; but if it did, you ’d find Mr. 
Archer had managed all your affairs quite comfortably 
for you in the interval.” 

“I’m sure he would. He and Ella, of course. By 
the way, where is Ella ? I have n’t seen her for ever 
so long. Why ? Has anything been the matter ? ” 

“ She thought you ’d be vexed with her for throw- 
ing Mr. Archer over,” said Beatrice. 

“ For what?” 

“ Did n’t you know that her engagement with Mr. 
Archer was broken off ? ” 

“No; is it? Why?” 

“ Mark Scarsdale came home quite rich. You re- 
member Effie always said she was fond of him. I made 
sure Mr. Archer would have told you at once.” 

“ No.” 

“ I suppose he was too unhappy, and did n’t want to 
trouble you while you had so much on your mind.” 

‘ ‘ I wish somebody would write a story about people 
who are blind and dumb,” said Annie. “ It would be 
a very pathetic story, and of course it would end 
badly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But do you think there would be anything interest- 
ing to say about people who were blind and dumb ? ” 
said Beatrice. “You see, they could n’t possibly have 
any feelings about things if they could not see or hear 
them.” 

Annie rose from her seat laughing a little. 


Lady Feltringham’s Concern 277 

“ Good-night, dear. I ’ll go to bed, as I said. Mr. 
Sutton is coming to dinner, so you won’t be alone ; and 
since you are going to be married so soon I really need 
not stay to chaperon you. Besides, there ’s Edwards.” 

“ That ’s right ; be yourself again and laugh after all 
your worries,” said Beatrice, affectionately. 

“ I ’ve got so far,” said Annie, “ that I ’m thinking 
of something funny to tell Dick, just as I used to do.” 

So she crept away to hide in her lair, like any other 
wounded animal ; but she laughed because she was an 
animal with emotions and a brain. 

The thing she wanted to tell to Dick was that she 
quite understood why men loved stupid women. It is 
so restful to be entirely misunderstood. 

That same evening Dick, at a big crush in Brook 
Street, found himself confronted by Lady Feltringham, 
and it flashed into his mind that he had entirely for- 
gotten to call on her the day she had mentioned. He 
said he was very sorry, and looked shocked at himself. 
It was the only thing to be done in the circumstances. 

“ Let us sit down,” said Lady Feltringham, ” and 
you shall make your excuses. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There are only two credible excuses in life, ’ ’ said 
Dick. ” One is ‘ I forgot.’ That ’s good, because one 
never forgets unpleasant things, and scarcely ever un- 
important things. The other is what the scene-shifter 
said to Irving. Do you know the story ? ” 

Lady Feltringham composed herself to listen. 


278 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ It was in his pre-knightly days,” said Dick ; ” so 
it ’s an old story, but that does n’t matter. The scene- 
shifter had let the curtain down in the middle of Irving’s 
final speech, and everyone looked for bloodshed, at the 
least, when he called the offender before him and asked 
sternly : 

” ‘ Why did you let that curtain down ? ’ 

” ‘ Because I was a damned fool, Mr. Irving !’ said 
the man. Of course, that ended the incident. There 
was absolutely no more to be said. ‘ Hamlet,’ that is 
to say the scene-shifter, had made himself ‘ of the 
faction that was wronged ’ with one breath. I ’m 
always a little afraid to tell that story for fear some dull 
person should say it is not true, and I ’ve liked it so 
long I could n’t spare it.” 

” And which of the two credible excuses is yours just 
now ? ” asked Lady Feltringham. 

” When I told you a nice little story like that,” said 
Dick, reproachfully, ” I thought I should divert your 
attention from the matter in hand. A young lady told 
me the other day that when she was a child, whenever 
she had been behaving badly, she used to fall down- 
stairs, and that always diverted attention from her 
conduct. Don’t you think it was rather clever of 
her?” 

” Very clever, indeed ; but her mother must have 
been rather foolish, don’t you think ? When are you 
to be married ? Have you arranged yet ? ’ * 


Lady Feltringham’s Concern 279 

“ Miss Payne has arranged that we are not to be 
married at all.” 

I^ady Feltringham said “My dear Dick!” and 
looked quite troubled. 

At that moment someone claimed her attention, and 
it was some moments before she could turn to Dick 
again. When she did, she still looked troubled. “ Det 
us go back to that nice sofa again. I want to say 
something tiresome,” she said. 

“ What is it ? ” he asked, seating himself beside her. 

“ I like some of my friends for being good, and some 
for being wicked,” she said. 

“ Either reason is good enough,” said Dick. “ In 
fact, any reason is good enough for liking anybody. ’ ’ 

“ For instance, there ’s Jim. I like him for being 
wicked. If he were to reform, and take life seriously 
and marry well, or do anything to make himself a 
credit to us, I should quite miss him. It would make 
him into somebody else.” 

“ Jim ” was the young man Dick had gone to warn 
that Sunday morning when he had met Annie coming 
from church. He laughed. 

“ I don’t think you need fear Jim disappointing you 
in that way,” he said. 

“ Now you, on the contrary, I like for being good,” 
Eady Feltringham continued, “ and I should miss you 
much more than I should him if you were to turn into 
somebody else. My dear boy, it would grieve me.” 


28 o The Priest’s Marriage 

Dick looked up to speak, and then changed his mind 
and waited. 

“ I heard something that troubled me the other day 
from Mary Caine. You know her, don’t you ? Wend- 
over’s elder sister, who married that tiresome man with 
the money. You know what she was saying, of 
course ? ’ ’ 

“Does one ever know what people are saying?” 
said Dick, a little impatiently. 

“ That ’s an admission, is n’t it, that you guess it 
was something about you; and your engagement being 
broken off makes it worse, of course.” 

“ My engagement is broken off because Miss Payne 
is going to marry someone else. ’ ’ 

“Oh, is that it?” Dady Feltringham looked re- 
lieved for a moment, and then grave again. “ But you 
might have looked a little sorrier, might n’t you ? It 
would have been wiser. ’ ’ 

“ I suppose I might have done that if I had thought 
of it.” 

“ It would have been wiser,” repeated Lady Felt- 
ringham. “ Mary Caine says she is a nice little thing, 
who ought to have nicer friends than she has.” 

“ I have known Mrs. Stravil for a good many years,” 
said Dick, not in answer to Lady Feltringham’ s speech, 
but to the fact that she was speaking on the subject at all. 

“ Yes, I know,” said Lady Feltringham ; “ but then 
the world at large is unfortunately too coarse to believe 


Lady Feltringham’s Concern 281 

in friendship, or feel the need of it. I’m afraid I ’ve 
been something of a mischief-maker myself. I made 
some remark about your being in such good spirits that 
afternoon, and then that stupid creature, Mary, who 
really is quite at home among her husband’s friends, 
told me a good deal about the poor little girl. What I 
can’t understand is why she was allowed to make such 
a marriage at all.” 

“ Unfortunately, it was no one’s business except her 
mother’s to prevent her,” said Dick, ” and her mother 
was an invalid, quite conscious that she might leave 
her daughter unprovided for at any moment. From 
her point of view, his desertion of his church was a 
point in his favor.” 

“ Yes, I suppose there are people who take that 
view ; and the girl would naturally be brought up in 
the same opinions. Still, they might both have known 
that the habit of desertion is a bad habit, might n’t 
they ? I suppose you could n’t have done anything ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I did not know that the man was an ordained priest 
until too late.” 

“ Too late ? ” 

“ Till she was fond of him. In fact, I knew nothing 
of the affair at all till it was practically settled.” 

“ It would have been a great deal better for the girl 
to have had a little unhappiness then than to have had 
to go through all she has gone through,” said Uady 
Feltringham, 


282 


The Priest’s Marriage 


If anyone had known what was coming, ’ ’ said Dick. 

“ Well, yes, of course ; no one did. If the gift of 
prophecy had n’t died out the world would be much 
more comfortable, would n’t it ? I’m sorry for her, of 
course ; but I ’m afraid you are not being very wise, 
Dick.” 

” I don’t know,” said Dick. ” I am trying to be 
some sort of use to a woman who is good and unhappy. 
If people gossip about it, it can’t be helped.” 

” If you had only looked a little sorrier these last few 
days,” repeated Dady Feltringham. ” I wish I had n’t 
been at home when poor Mary called. I ’ll never com- 
mit myself to an opinion about anyone’s looks again. 
But I was a little anxious about you, Dick. You 
have n’t said, by the way, that there ’s no occasion for 
anxiety. ’ ’ 

” There ’s no occasion.” 

Instantly Lady Feltringham’ s face cleared. She 
even laughed a little. 

” Of course, you ’d have said just the same if there 
had been,” she said. 

“You would n’t have believed me in that case. 
That would have been the difference. ’ ’ 

” What I really want to know,” she said, ” is whether 
I can’t be of any use to your friend. ‘ Good and un- 
happy ’ amounts to a sort of claim on one, does n’t it ? ” 

” It ’s not often one meets with people who think 
so,” said Dick, ” but when one does one loves them.” 


Lady Feltringham’s Concern 


283 


“Well, what can I do?” said I^ady Feltringham. 
‘ ‘ I should have called on her, as a matter of course, 
if — ” Lady Feltringham stopped short. She had 
been going to say “ if, as I always expected, you had 
married her yourself,” but remembered Dick’s relief at 
his broken engagement, and changed her sentence to 
“ if I had not gone abroad.” 

‘ ‘ We ’ ve all read our Thackeray, ’ ’ said Dick. ‘ ‘ The 
sort of people who would misunderstand Mrs. Stravil 
are exactly the sort of people who would be answered 
by a call from you.” 

“ After all you have told me, I should like very 
much to know your friend,” said Lady Feltringham. 
“ So, if these very draughty rooms don’t give me an 
attack of bronchitis, I will call on Mrs. Stravil within 
the week, and then I can ask her here for the thirty- 
first.” 




CHAPTER XXVIII 


uncertainty 


HE fourteen days were past. Annie had spent 



1 them quietly enough in preparing for her visit 
abroad, and making arrangements to be ready to give 
up the house and her allowance into her husband’s 
lawyer’s hands directly the prescribed time should 
have expired. 

Of course, her friends had remonstrated against her 
giving up her income. Most of the remonstrances she 
merely heard silently and disregarded. To Archer she 
was a little more explicit. 

“ While the boy ’s a baby, we can live very well on 
what mother left,” she said ; “ later, of course, I shall 
ask Eustace to pay his school bills, because that ’s what 
I ought to do. But if one had only feelings to consider, 
it would be very much less humiliation to ask you for 
money than to ask Eustace. Don’t talk any more now. 
Come and see me on the thirteenth, and stay all the 
evening.” The thirteenth was the last of the fourteen 
days. 


284 


Uncertainty 


285 


Dick came late in the afternoon. It was the only 
evening she had been alone during the past fortnight, 
but. a long-standing engagement with her fianci had 
claimed Beatrice. Dick was a little surprised not to 
find her with her hostess. 

‘ ‘ I thought she was going to stay with you till you 
went to her mother,” he said. 

“ She would have stayed if I ’d asked her. She ’s 
very kind,” said Annie. “ But George Sutton has his 
rights, you know. Besides, she thinks I take things 
very easily. People always do when one says nothing. ’ ’ 
“That ’s so nice of them,” said Dick. “ By the 
way, is n’t that why one says nothing ? ” 

‘ ‘ Dick, was that why you did n’t tell me about Ella ? ’ ’ 
“ No,” said Dick. He paused a moment, and then 
added : “ It was unimportant.” 

She looked at him anxiously for a moment, and then 
began to walk up and down the room. “I’m glad it 
was unimportant,” she said. 

‘ ‘ How did you know anything about it ? ” 

“ The usual way — the Baileys.” 

“ I was n’t going to tell you till your own worries 
were settled ; and when they were settled it did n’t seem 
to matter.” 

“ I wonder ” — Annie’s tone was visibly restrained 
from being that of a question — “ I wonder why you 
ever asked her if — if it mattered so little, you know.” 

“ Ella said a very true thing about me once,” said 


286 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Dick. ‘ ‘ She said I did n’t live ; I just stood about and 
let things happen. This happened, and now it has un- 
happened, so to speak. I suppose that ’s not the sort 
of thing one ought to say.” 

“ And to think of its being unimportant with her 
too,” said Annie, stopping in her walk. 

‘ ‘ Oh, it was even less important to her, ’ ’ said Dick, 
promptly. 

” I know. They told me about Mr. Scarsdale. 
Effie guessed it all the while. I did n’t. Some of the 
things I admired her for doing were n’t so generous 
as I thought.” 

” No ; some of the seeming generosity was indiffer- 
ence. I knew, but I did n’t tell you, because you 
always found such pleasure in overrating people.” 

” I don’t think I overrate you, Dick.” 

” I should like to know, just this once, what you do 
think of me,” said Dick, slowly. 

“ I think you are the one man a woman dare have 
for a friend.” 

Dick smiled, and rose, holding out his hand. 

” You are not going ? ” she said. “ Please don’t ! 
I expected you to stay this evening. Don’t you re- 
member. You said you would. Why, you must have 
remembered, because you are dressed.” 

” So I am,” said Dick, placidly. “ I was n’t sure 
that you remembered. I was giving you a chance of 
forgetting comfortably if you had forgotten.” 


Uncertainty 


287 


“ Of course I had not,” said Annie. ” I should 
have been a little frightened if I had been alone to- 
night.” 

” There ’s nothing to be frightened about.” 

“As if that mattered ! One ’s frightened because 
one is — not because there is a reason why they should 
be. When this evening is over, I shall have done a 
very important thing. You said it was settled ; but 
you know it is n’t really formally settled till after to- 
night, and I ’m glad you will be with me when it is 
quite done.” 

‘ ‘ I shall be able to be with you whenever you need 
me,” Dick said. 

” Oh!” — her face flushed as she turned to him ; trust 
and gratitude made it very beautiful — ” I think I ^m 
the happiest woman in all the world to have a friend 
like you. I ’d wasted my life, and then, instead of be- 
ing desolate, I have you. I wish I could be as much to 
you — as much help and comfort, I mean — as you will 
always be to me ; but I can’t, because you don’t need 
me. You have all the doing, and I have only to say 
thank you. ’ ’ 

” I find it quite a good arrangement,” said Dick. 

She faced him, speaking the words in a low tone, but 
with a tone of defiance : 

“I’m glad it was unimportant about Klla.” 

Thanks.” 

” Don’t ; don’t think I mean only for your sake : it ’s 


288 


The Priest’s Marriage 


for my own. I should have been glad you were not 
married even if things had been different. You re- 
member, I owned that, and how ashamed I was of it at 
first ! I’m glad, and ashamed of being glad now, but 
it ’s the only thing I ’m ashamed of.” 

A shadow rose in her face as she looked back for one 
moment, and then passed from it with a completeness 
that told it had passed forever. 

“ I ’m not sorry I was married,” she continued, 
“ because of the boy. But things have been very hor- 
rible. After to-night all the horrible part will be done 
with. The world will be like it was when we used to 
walk about in Kensington Gardens together, and I 
did n’t know about horrid things. We shall have to 
remember a little that other people do know about 
them, and think about them a great deal, and be very 
careful ; but that won’t be hard, because we never were 
careless.” 

“ No, that will be simple enough.” 

‘ ‘ Dick, tell me one thing, and then my mind will be 
quite at rest, and I won’ t ask any more questions. I 
know, of course, I was not the sort of girl you could 
ever have loved. If Klla was n’t the girl, who is? 
Who is it that some day will take you aw’ay from me ? ’ ’ 

“ No one.” 

“ Then if I had n’t — if things had been different ? ” 

“ I suppose,” said Dick, speaking quite quietly and 
easily — ‘ ‘ I suppose that in the natural course of things 


Uncertainty 


289 


we should have loved each other ; but since things hap- 
pened as they did, we have got friendship left, and 
friendship is pretty good in its way.” 

“ Friendship is very good,” she said ; “ but I shall 
always be frightened of that unknown girl. ’ ’ 

“ I will give you a distinct pledge if you like. I ’ll 
stand up in the middle of the hearth-rug and take heaven 
to witness — though I ’m doubtful of the good taste of 
subpoenaing heaven in our little earthly affairs — that I 
will not fall in love, or marry, or do anything absurd. 
I will find friendship enough as long as you ask friend- 
ship from me.” 

” People say men can’t do that,” she said. “ I 
don’t believe it. There are so manj’^ kinds of men. I 
shall find you the one who can. Now, we won’t be 
serious any more. They ought to have announced 
dinner before this.” 

“ Tell me about the boy,” said Dick. 

“ There is n’t anything to tell. He is so healthy 
and so good one can’t say much about him except, 
* Happy is the baby that has no history.’ Shall you 
go to Bee’s wedding on Thursday ? ” 

‘ I would n’t miss it for the world. I ’m so curious 
to see if Sutton wears a white shirt ! ” 

“ Oh, he will,” said Annie. “ It ’s a secret so far ; 
but I ’ve gathered enough from Beatrice to know that 
after the wedding there will be no more cashmere and 

gray flannel.” 

19 


290 


The Priest’s Marriage 


Will it be a vegetarian breakfast ? ” 

“If it is,” said Annie, “ we will eat nothing but 
cake. That would be vegetarian in any case.” 

“ I did n’t think of that. Vegetarians make vege- 
tables so much less palatable than anyone else. One 
could dine quite tolerably on vegetables if only a vege- 
tarian had n’t cooked them.” 

Dinner was announced, and they went down-stairs. 

“It is thick soup,” said Annie. “ That is because 
you were coming. I used always to have it clear till I 
learned better. Men always like to begin with thick 
soup and end with an apple, and either ’s a meal in 
itself, one would say.” 

‘ ‘ Because they want to eat as much food as they can 
with the least display,” said Dick. “ Women never 
quite understand how much a man would like to eat. 
They don’t appreciate the three dozen oysters stor}^ 
You remember, the guest mistook them for the supper, 
but they were merely intended to give him an appetite. ’ ’ 

“ We have oysters to-night, but they don’t come at 
first to give us an appetite. They are only sauce later 
on. I had a battle with the cook about them. She 
did n’t want me to have oysters unless we had cod, and 
I insisted. She thinks me very unconventional. She ’ s 
the only person who does. Is n’t it humiliating ? I ’ve 
only just enough originality to irritate the cook.” 

“ There ’s the post,” said Dick. 

Annie had heard it too, and she started. She turned 


Uncertainty 291 

rather white, and wondered if a letter from Eustace 
could count. 

“ Be a little more unconventional,” said Dick, ” and 
read your letters at once. ’ ’ 

She sent for them. There were two or three. 

” Mrs. Bailey — she can wait. Ella — that ’s to tell 
me what I know already — that can wait, too. This is 
an invitation — Lady Feltringham — dinner on the thirty- 
first, with an At Home afterwards, and a note.” She 
read the note. ” She would have called, but an attack 
of bronchitis kept her to her room. Hopes anyone so 
old as she is may be forgiven the misfortune that has 
prevented her making my acquaintance formally before 
sending the invitation — quite a pretty note. Dick, you 
have been talking to her about me. ’ ’ 

” You don’t mind, do you ? ” said Dick. ” She ’s a 

sweet old lady, and I thought ’ ’ 

“ I know just what you thought. I suppose the real 
reason why she did n’t call was that you only spoke to 
her this afternoon . ” 

No, she really has bronchitis. It ’s just like her 
to take it for granted that she will be well at a fixed 
date, if necessary. It was she spoke to me, by the 
way, not I to her. That was over a week ago.” 

“ Well, you answered her, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes. You had seemed to be counting on Ella’s — 
chaperon age, shall we call it ? I knew that was gone. 
Lady Feltringham offered an equivalent.” 


292 


The Priest’s Marriage 


“ I wonder what you said to make her offer it ! ” 

“ It was n’t necessary to say anything. It was a 
very natural thing for her to do. Why should n’t she 
ask you to dinner, as well as anybody else ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Just so ! Why not ? ’ ’ said Annie. ‘ ‘ Only she has 
chosen just the very moment when it will be very 
pleasant indeed for me to know her. So I can’t help 
being glad. Everything is being so nice ! Do you 
think it would be any good my setting to work to learn 
the sort of things boys have to learn so as to be able 
to help mine, when the time comes ? ’ ’ 

“ I think it would be a pleasure to you, and that ’s 
always a good thing. But there ’s time enough.” 

” But the sooner one begins the better. A splendid 
old lady told me the other day that she always used to 
sing her babies to sleep with the Latin declensions, so 
that when the time came for them to learn them at 
school, instead of getting into trouble three times a 
week, they knew them all by instinct.” 

“ We ’ll have Latin lessons once a week,” said Dick. 
“ I think I can undertake to teach you enough to sing 
the child asleep with.” 

“You say ‘ the child ’ of him just as you used to 
say it of me,” said Annie. 

“ We ’re going to be just as fond of him,” said Dick. 
“ He is a nice little fellow already, you know,” said 
Annie. “ It ’s no use my trying to be unprejudiced 
any longer. You see, I ’ve seen other babies. Some 


Uncertainty 


293 


began to show that they were little wretches before 
they were a fortnight old, and others were nice just as 
soon. So it is n’t prejudice, it ’s experience, makes 
me think mine a dear little fellow.” 

“ What are the traits ? ” asked Dick, with interest. 

“ Well, a nasty baby goes on crying when you ’ve 
given it what it wants. That sort of baby grows into 
the person who goes on girding at you after you ’ve 
apologized, and reminds you of grievances long after 
you ’ve thought you ’d made up for them. My baby 
howls hard enough for what he wants, but directly he 
gets it he stops crying. That means he ’ll always be 
friends directly one says one ’s sorry.” 

‘ ‘ Do you mean to say, ’ ’ said Dick, ‘ ‘ that you intend 
to bring up that poor child to forgive people the mo- 
ment they take the trouble to say they are sorry ? It ’s 
a most unprincipled thing to do. I’m the child’s god- 
father, and I sha’n’t allow it. Tife grows unendurable 
to a man who does n’t know how to bear malice 
properly.” 

“ I think it ’s terrible enough to go on being angry 
as long as one must,” said Annie. “We have a right 
to forgive people when they say they are sorry.” 

“ If they are really sorry, and their sorrow is in 
proper proportion to the offence, and if they find it ex- 
tremely difficult and unpleasant to own to being sorry 
at all ; otherwise, you just encourage them to offend 
again. It ’s like letting people off with a fine they 


294 


The Priest’s Marriage 


don’t miss, and any magistrate will tell you how im- 
moral that is.” 

‘‘ Oh, but one always is sorry for having made a 
baby cry, ’ ’ said Annie. 

“ That ’s a mean evasion,” cried Dick. “We were 
discussing a great principle, and you were in the 
wrong. ’ ’ 

They both laughed, and Edwards entered to remove 
the fish. 

“ This is where the oysters come,” said Annie : 
“ stewed fowl and oyster sauce. It ought to be nice.” 

“ It will be,” said Dick. “ We ’ll let the immorality 
of careless forgiveness go undiscussed. ’ ’ 

At the moment, through the open dining-room door 
they heard the sharp, unmistakable click of a latch- 
key. Annie had begun some careless answer to 
Archer’s speech. It died on her lips. She raised a 
white, startled face, listening. Dick, listening also, was 
as white as she. Even the servant turned pale as he 
stood still behind the chair. There was a moment’s 
intense silence, through it the faint sounds of some- 
one moving at the hat-rack. 

It was Edwards spoke first. 

“ Shall I see if that is my master, ma’am ? ” 

Annie said, “Yes.” Dick looked at her, almost 
frightened. The happy woman who had been chatter- 
ing seemed turning into stone before his eyes. 

The servant left the room, but there was no need of 


U ncertainty 


295 


any question. The two friends knew what had hap- 
pened quite well. It seemed a long time to both before 
Kustace stood in the doorway. He looked older, thin- 
ner, seriously ill indeed, but intensely handsome and 
quite calm. He was in evening dress. 

“ Good-evening, my dear ; good-evening. Archer.” 

” Bring back the soup, Edwards.” 

Again, the unnatural tone in which the common- 
place words were spoken frightened Archer. 

Stravil answered lightly : 

” No, no ; I ’m late, and must take my chance. I ’ll 
just go on where you are. I meant to be here in time 
to take you out somewhere ; but it ’s just as pleasant 
to find Archer here. How far have you got ? The 
entrie. That will do. Is there any of the Sauterne 
left that I bought at Sowerby’s sale, Edwards ? Yes ? 
Then bring some. You are looking very well, Annie. 
I understand you have been taking care of her in my 
absence. Archer. I am obliged to you. No — don’t 
move — this will do. ’ ’ 

” It ’s been a pleasure to me to be of any use,” said 
Archer. 

Stravil had seated himself carelessly at the side of the 
little table, and waited while Edwards served him. 

“ I had a horrible crossing,” he said, ” and a detest- 
able journey.” 

“ Did you come by Ostend ? ” asked Dick. 

” No. I came from Calais. I wanted to try the 


296 


The Priest’s Marriage 


other route. I am thinking of taking my wife to Paris 
at the end of the season, or sooner if she has no engage- 
ments she particularly cares about. Have you, my 
dear ? ” 

“ Mrs. Stravil has been very quiet,” said Archer. 

“ I stayed long enough in Paris to bring you some 
diamonds, my dear,” Stravil went on. “ We will see 
how you like them after dinner.” 

Archer saw Annie try to make her lips move, and 
then give up the attempt. 

” Why did you get diamonds in Paris, when you 
were coming to London ? ” he said. 

“ Oh, I liked the glitter and sparkle. I grant you 
there ’s more dignity about English setting, but Annie 
does n’t want dignity. She wants — well — not daring 
— she has plenty of that — but more show of it. Be- 
sides, I had to stay in Paris for some clothes. My 
tailor has a branch place there.” 

Annie was making no effort to speak now. It seemed 
impossible that her husband should not notice her 
silence, and protest against Archer’s answering for her; 
but he went on talking unconcernedly of Paris and his 
journey. Archer wished Annie would faint. He 
hoped for that every moment. And yet he knew she 
was suffering too much for such relief to be possible to 
her. When at last dinner was over, and he saw her 
make an effort to rise, he knew that she had been col- 
lecting her strength for that moment, and would be able 


Uncertainty 297 

to leave them quietly. He was almost angry at the 
calm that seemed to make the situation hopeless. 

No, no, ’ ’ cried Eustace, as she rose, putting out a 
hand to detain her. “ Don’t go ! I don’t want to be 
left with him. It ’s you I ’ve come home to, not him. 
He ’ll excuse us in the circumstances.” 

Still Annie did not speak. She did not even draw 
away as her husband’s touch neared her. She did not 
even look at Dick for help. She had no strength left 
for anything but endurance. There was a pause. 

“I ’m a sort of guardian to Mrs. Stravil,” said 
Archer. “You remember, her mother wished it, and 
you said something about it yourself once. You were 
joking, of course; but it might be as well, don’t you 
think, if you were to let her go, and we were to talk 
matters over.” 

“ I refuse it. I know the part you played, and I say 
nothing.” 

All the fury of feeling behind Stravil’ s self-command 
showed for a moment — only a moment. Then he added 
courteously — “Except that I ’m obliged to you, and I 
said that before. You have been of service to my wife 
in a matter where most men’s service would have caused 
scandal, and I have heard of no scandal. I am blaming 
no one for the part my wife played. On the contrary, 
I justify it by my return ; but, having complied with 
the law, I am her husband, and, in that character, I 
ask you to excuse us.” 


298 


The Priest s Marriage 


They were all three standing now, almost, in the 
group their position at the table had made. Stravil 
and Archer faced each other. Annie was between 
them, a little in the background. Stravil’ s manner had 
not been insolent. He spoke again, still with forced 
courtesy. 

“ That ’s all about it. Archer. You ’ve behaved 
well, and I ’ve behaved badly ; but you ’re not my 
guardian, so I won’t be lectured. The only person 
who has a right to lecture me is my wife, and my wife, 
as you see, says nothing.” 

Again the storm of feeling showed through the care- 
less words. This time it was passionate tenderness. 
His very fingers trembled. He stretched a hand to- 
wards his wife, not quite reaching her. 

‘ ‘ She was always a quiet little thing, ’ ’ he said. 

Annie made a step forward. The rustle of her skirt 
turned Archer’s eyes towards her from the husband, 
who, standing firmly upon his rights, showed an 
air of civil but emphatic dismissal, to the wife whose 
white face said absolutely nothing. She might, per- 
haps, be appealing to his friendship. ” I think you 
the one man a woman dare have for a friend ” — the 
words repeated themselves to him again and again, 
twenty times in a second. She had overrated him 
with the rest, and he had not warned her. 

” Friendship has nothing to do here,” said Stravil. 

The words might have been an answer to the 


Uncertainty 


299 


thoughts of the wife and the friend. They were meant 
to be cruel. The man took triumphant pleasure in the 
fact that they were cruel. They were meant to strike 
the friend, not the wife, but he heard Annie catch her 
breath ; her figure seemed to stiffen and strengthen. 
He knew now how horribly afraid she had been all 
this time ; but he knew that now she was less afraid. 
The color was creeping back into her face. She held 
out her hand, and smiled a little. 

“ Good-night, Dick. I shall see you to-morrow ? ” 

“At what hour ? “ 

“ Oh, come aS early as you like. Come to breakfast 
about eleven,” said Stravil, in a tone of ordinary 
hospitality. 

“ Good-night, then,” said Archer. 

Stravil followed him to the door, and repeated a 
civil “ Good- night ” as it closed; then stood con- 
sidering a moment. Presently he felt in the pockets 
of the coat he had left on the rack for two big jeweller’s 
cases, and went back to the dining-room. It was 
empty. He tried the drawing-room ; that was empty 
also ; so was Annie’s boudoir. He crossed to the bed- 
room, and tried the door of it. It was not locked. He 
entered. 




CHAPTER XXIX 


REPENTANCE 



NNIE was standing by the mantelpiece. She was 


very white and very calm. Eustace had opened 
the jewel cases on his way up-stairs, but now he flung 
them aside, as things too trivial for notice at such a 
moment. The careless self-possession he had main- 
tained till now was gone. There was not a trace of it. 

“You are angry,” he cried. “Jealous — but you 
need not be. Don’t you know what it means that I 
have come back ? The fight is over, and you have 
won.” 

She did not speak. She stood quietly in her place 
waiting. He crossed the room with arms outstretched, 
but he stopped short. 

‘ ‘ What is it ?” he said. “You are going to reproach 
me ! We have n’t got to the reconciliation stage ? ” 
He broke into a laugh. “ My dear, you have nothing 
to complain of, if you only knew. I suppose some 
busy-body has been telling you that it was not always 
monasteries I left you for before ; but you must not 


300 


Repentance 


301 


blame me for that. When you first woke the old faith 
in me, I could n’t bear my love for you. I did n’t love 
those others ; I thought they might help me to break 
your hold over me ; but that was no use. Then I got 
desperate, and thought that if I were lost I would have 
the full price of my soul, and make the most of this life 
at least ; but that was no use either ; I hated them. It 
was you, you only who counted in the struggle. I did 
struggle. I fought for my soul, but the fight ’s over. 
I thought that if I did not give way to temptation 
when I came to you that night I should be safe. When 
I had strength to send back your letters unopened I 
thought I was safe. I loved the struggle. It was my 
one joy to sit with the latch-key in my hand thinking 
how I could come back if I would, but that I would 
not. I thought of that always, while I prayed — while 
they prayed for me. God, with all His priests, fought 
against you ; but you have won. I shall never leave 
you again, never be harsh with you again. I have 
come back to love ; and if hell ’s the price I must pay, 
we ’ll pay it together.” 

Again he would have taken her in his arms — again he 
stopped short, though she neither moved nor looked at 
him. 

” Did you know,” she said, ” that we have a 
child?” 

” A child ? A son? Where is he ? ” 

She moved to the child’s bed. He followed and 


302 


The Priest’s Marriage 


stood opposite her. One feeling seemed to chase an- 
other so fast across his face that she could not read 
them, but the last was of intense satisfaction and relief. 

“ We will make him a priest,” he said. ” He shall 
atone for us. We will give him to the Church in ex- 
change for our souls. ’ ’ 

” No !” 

“ You are angry,” he said. You won’t forgive 
me. You never were so cold before. I must win you 
over again. You shall remember the days when you 
first loved me — the first days of our honeymoon. ’ ’ 

” It ’s because I remember that, it is no use your 
coming back, Eustace,” she said. “ I don’t love you 
— and I loathe your love for me.” 

The quiet intensity of the words broke through the 
excitement that possessed him. He drew back, in- 
credulous. 

” You are angry,” he said ; “ you say that to punish 
me. No wife ever loved her husband more.” 

No,” she cried, “ I think no wife ever did, Eustace; 
but you made me ashamed of my love, and I could n’t 
go on loving after that.” 

‘ ‘ But you were angry when I left, ’ ’ he cried — * ‘ cut 
to the heart. The priest told me so. You must be 
glad when I come back. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I was angry, but I could forgive your leaving 
me. I could forgive even that — that you told me just 
now, about other women. I never heard a word of 


Repentance 


303 


it till now. But I can never forgive the horrible 
thoughts that made you go, nor will I share the hor- 
rible love you offer me now. ’ ’ 

“ You appealed to the law to call me back.” 

“Yes. I faced the public degradation. The shame 
of it — oh, it was dreadful. Horrible people were laugh- 
ing, and saying horrible things of me for what I did ; 
but I did it for your sake, and mine, and my son’s. 
Because I was afraid that you would come back to a 
love you thought wicked. If you had not, we should 
have been free. You, from what seems a deadly sin to 
you, and I, from the shame of suffering such love ; and 
my son — it was for his sake most of all. He shall 
never think as you do — never. You do not know 
what love is.” 

“ Not to know ? When I have come back to it at 
the cost of my soul ! ” he cried. 

‘ ‘ When you think it will cost your soul, you do not 
know. If you had come back because you had learned 
what love really is, I could have borne it. I ’d have 
tried to forget what you made me suffer and love 
you as I used ; but such love as yours hurts more than 
contempt. It made the world hateful to me. You 
made me ashamed of what I had thanked God for night 
and morning. You want to make my son a priest to 
bribe God to forgive what I thanked Him for. See 
here ” 

She drew back the coverings, and unfastened the 


304 


The Priest’s Marriage 


child’s robe, uncovering his breast and showing a deep 
purple mark across it. 

“What ’s that?’’ cried Eustace. “How in the 
world did that happen ? ’’ 

“ You remember that night — that last night — ^when 
I came to you ? You had something in your hand 
when you struck me ? ’ ’ 

“ The crucifix — oh ’’ 

He drew back with a cry, then threw up his arms 
with a gesture that seemed a last, despairing protest. 

“ My God ! Let it be remembered she came to me, 
warm, loving, tempting me — and I resisted — I did not 
yield. If I fail now, I made a good fight. Let that 
be remembered when the time comes to judge me.’’ 

He threw himself towards her and the child. It was 
she who thrust him back now. 

“ Stand back ! Don’t touch the child ! You are 
ashamed of the love that brought him. I say that 
mark shall be the only trace you give him of the horri- 
ble things you believe. You think God made a world 
that can only exist by means of what He hates — or at 
best tolerates. I think God gave love to the world be- 
cause He loved the world. The very things that made 
me believe in Him — the spark in the flint, the life in 
the reed — are shameful to you — not beautiful, but 
shameful. When I came to you that night, my thoughts 
were as pure as the child’s thoughts now. I came to 
tell you God was giving him to us, and beg you to stop 


Repentance 


305 


being hard and bitter, and thank God with me and be 
very happy and grateful. You know what you thought 
— you said it now — that I had come to tempt you — you 
struck me on the breast and called me ’ ’ 

“ Oh, my wife, my wife — my child’s mother — forgive 
me — forgive me ! ” he cried. 

“You call me wife and mother to-night,” she said, 
“ and you mean just the same thing.” 

He stood back. At last he was beginning to under- 
stand. She went on. She was not calm now, but 
spoke with a power that seemed like inspiration to him. 
He trembled while he listened. 

‘ ‘ Can you and I love each other ? When we speak 
of love, we speak different languages. I mean God’s 
best gift — the soul of the whole world, the one thing 
quite holy and clean — the thing that makes a man 
or woman brave and pure and noble — something 
so much greater, little as there is of it, than all the 
greed and cruelty and treachery of life that God can 
still be patient with the world because of it, and good 
men and women be glad of life for its sake. All the 
earth, men and beasts, and everything that grows, 
thank God for love. The eyes of the lowest beasts 
grow wonderful with tenderness — till we fancy they 
have souls too — when they bear their young. And 
you — priest that you are — think shame of it ! You 
blaspheme God when you speak of it. My son shall 
not be a priest, nor will I be a priest’s wife. Not 


3o6 


The Priest’s Marriage 


because of the vow you took. I thought you had come 
to know that vow was wrong and needless, and believed 
yourself free again, as all men are, to take the happi- 
ness God has never once forbidden them to take ; but 
because I will not give my good love for your evil love 
— my glory in exchange for your shame ; and my son — 
my son — ” her voice faltered. “Yes, it is true ; I had 
rather he died now than lived to think as you do ! “ 

Excited, exalted as she was, Annie scarcely noticed 
how her words struck home. The man who for years 
had struggled against love as an ignoble temptation, 
had never seen it, even for one momentarily keen 
mental glance, as something too noble and sacred for 
him to reach or touch. He saw it so now. He had 
believed when they said to him, ‘ ‘ This love is a snare 
that will lead to your destruction ” — and had counted 
destruction as nothing weighed against love — had been 
ready to seek love in hell ; and love was not there after 
all, but in heaven, where he could not go. The light 
in the face of the wife that had been, and the mother 
of a child, rebuked him more that the spoken words. 
He turned away as if dazzled, moving towards the 
child’s bed. 

“ Eet me touch him, Annie.’’ 

She drew back. 

Eustace touched the child’s hand, bending over him. 
Annie saw his hands tremble. 

“ You can come back. After what I have done you 


Repentance 


307 


can make me live with you, but you cannot make me 
love you. For what I call love is nothing to you, and 
what you call love I hate.” 

Stravil laid one hand on the child’s head, with the 
other he drew the covering over the black mark on his 
breast. He started in his sleep with a little murmur. 
Annie cried out too, and started forward. Her hus- 
band looked up. He saw her face, and a spasm of pain 
distorted his own. He crouched down beside the 
child’s bed, covering his face. She thought he was 
sobbing, and bent towards him across the little bed. 
For the first time since his return she reached out her 
hand towards him. It cost her an effort, but she laid 
it lightly on his shoulder. 

I ’m sorry,” she said. 

* ^ You were always kind, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Always a kind 
woman, always the first to be friends, always ready to 
forgive. You have been bitter to-night, but — no — 
don’t speak again — you have conquered.” 

She did not speak. After a moment her husband 
rose. 

“ Come, my dear, you are white and tired ; sit down 
here where I can see you better, and we will talk a 
little. You have said a good deal that is true, and left 
out a good deal that is true. That is what I must say 
to you now. Sit down here.” 

She sat in the chair he placed, but he did not look at 
her. He walked up and down the room slowly. Once 


3o8 


The Priest’s Marriage 


he stumbled over the case of diamonds he had flung 
down, and pushed it away with his foot impatiently. 
Once he stopped for what seemed a long time by the 
child’s bed. At last he came towards her. 

‘ ‘ When a man has made a vow to God, he must not 
break it. To do that is sin, you will allow. You are 
not angry if I am ashamed of that ? ” 

‘ ‘ God never asked any man to make that vow. ’ ’ 

“ The more reason one would say to keep it if it is 
made voluntarily ; but let that go. I surrendered God’s 
gift of love, but not the devil’s gift of brute lust — one 
can’t get rid of that so easily. It lives the stronger for 
the loss of the other. Tove is the one thing strong 
enough to kill lust. I ’ve learned that to-night. No 
wonder we priests think so ill of love since we give it 
up, and have only the unconquerable brute- instinct to 
judge by.” 

He dropped half on his knees by her chair, resting 
his head on the arm of it. 

“My dear, my dear, I ’ll leave you. I ’ll go back to 
the only life possible to me now. I ’ve learnt what 
love is to-night, but it is not for me now. It ’s some- 
thing beyond my reach, but I ’ ve seen it. I know what 
it is, and that ’s something. I gave up my vows be- 
cause, left alone with the brute, the brute conquered. 
I had lost the power to love as you love long ago ; for 
if good love can conquer all evil, evil can kill love. 
The two are foes to the death. One has to choose be- 


Repentance 


309 


tween them, and there’s no escaping the consequences 
of the choice. I will go back and repent the sin that 
broke the vow, and the folly that made it. What shall 
you do now, my dear ? ’ ’ 

“ I shall live for the child.” 

“ And for the man who loves you ?’ * 

He raised his face. There was no reproach nor 
jealousy in it. She found herself reminded of the 
priest’s visit and the spiritual exaltation of his face. It 
seemed almost as if she and her husband could under- 
stand each other now. 

“ Mr. Archer is my best friend,” she said. 

Her husband smiled. 

“ I know it. Do you remember once when I had 
been disgusting you, because your purity rebuked me 
so unbearably, how you went for a holiday with the 
man who could love as you love, and came back to me 
with a child’s heart and a child’s eyes ? That was the 
day I ceased to be jealous of him. If I had been wiser, 
I should have begun to be afraid then.” 

“ He had never spoken one word of love to me.” 

“ And never would till the day he died. Does n’t 
all we ’ve been saying point to him as well as to me ? 
Don’t you remember what you said once when I, jest- 
ing in my coarse way, said he was in love with you : 
‘ You have no idea how different he is from you ? ’ 
You thought then that meant he did not love you. 
Now we both know it was the proof that he did. I 


310 


The Priest’s Marriage 


knew it when he left you to-night. You heard what I 
said : ‘ A friend could do nothing.’ I said it deliber- 
ately to stab him ; but it was not true. A friend could 
have done many things. It was the man who loved 
you who was helpless.” 

Eustace had risen and faced her. She looked 
straight into his eyes. 

“ I knew it too,” she said. “ That was why I ceased 
to feel afraid. But you can trust me, Eustace. You 
heard me say I should live for the child.” 

He smiled with the same austere tenderness that had 
shone in the priest’s eyes. Every moment seemed to 
take him farther away from her. 

“ My good little girl, that ’s not enough. You 
must be as happy as you are good. So far as I may, I 
must undo the mischief that I have done. If I go away 
the law will free you. Your beliefs allow divorce, and 
mine do not admit we are married. If you don’t like 
that way to freedom, you may not have long to wait, 
or you may have many years ; but I beg of you, with 
all my soul, to let me have the ease of knowing that 
the trouble I have made is dead before me. Do as he 
says, when he comes to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“ He, he — ” she broke through her tears, “ he never 
would ask ” 

“ Not a thing that could lower your purity or hurt 
your pride,” Stravil interrupted quietly. “ I know it, 
and he is yours with his whole heart now, or ten years 


Repentance 


3 


hence, or the day you both die. Still, consider his 
happiness a little, my dear. He deserves it. I am 
going to say good-by to you now.” 

She held out her hands with a little cry. 

“ Eustace, I ’m sorry! ” 

” I see you are ; you are crying. You would tell me 
to stay if you could, but you cannot, and I could not 
stay now, though you wished it. One can see a life’s 
mistake in a moment, when the light of God in a wo- 
man’s face shows it ; but one can’t change the nature 
that has grown up in a lifetime. You have made me 
see what love is ; but, seeing, I know that it is not for 
me. Eet those love who can love, and thank God for it. 
For me, I must be the priest I vowed to be, so good- 
by. I don’t think I ’ve done you very much harm, 
after all. You have a wonderful knack of forgetting 
evil. Good-night, my dear. Sleep quietly and wake 
happy.” 



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